Before the first sun warmed the first stone, before time was given a name to measure its passing, there was the expanse. It was not a void, for a void is empty. It was a potential, an unwritten thought, silent and whole.
Within this potential, consciousness awoke. Not as one, but as two, born in the same instant, two perfect halves of the same cosmic mind. They were the Two-Who-Were-One, and their natures were bound in opposition.
The first was a thought that sought to build. It was a light that yearned to travel, a sound that wished to be heard. It saw the expanse as a canvas, and Its will was the brush. This was the being that would be known as Qy'iel.
The second was a silence that sought to rule. It was a gravity that yearned for order, a stillness that demanded reverence. It saw the expanse as a vessel to be perfected, and Its will was the chisel. This was the being that would be known as Ghra'thul.
For an eon, they created in concert. Their duality was not a conflict, but a balance.
So Qy'iel spun the light of nascent stars, weaving them into tapestries of burning gas and cosmic dust. And Ghra'thul carved the perfect, silent darkness between them, giving them space to burn.
So Qy'iel shaped the molten worlds, raising mountains and sinking oceans with a will of boundless artistry. And Ghra'thul cooled them with the patient cold of the void, granting them solidity and the quiet peace of the night. They were architect and sculptor, song and silence, forever bound.
Their final creation was their magnum opus, a world they imbued with a piece of themselves. And upon this world, they shaped the Clay of Potential into a new form of life. A life that could think, and dream, and wonder. A life that could look up at the stars they had made and see not just light, but beauty. They called this creation Man.
It was here, in their greatest triumph, that their balance was broken. The schism began not with a roar, but with a question of purpose.
Qy'iel looked upon mankind and saw boundless potential. 'Let them choose,' was the thought of Qy'iel. 'Let them find their own way to beauty. Let them stumble and rise, learn and grow. Their existence shall be a song sung by many voices, some in harmony, some in discord, but all of it their own.'
Ghra'thul looked upon mankind and saw a flawless instrument. 'They must be guided,' was the thought of Ghra'thul. 'Their potential is for perfection, and perfection is found in unerring order. They will serve one purpose, one will. Their existence shall be a single, perfect note, held in eternal, unwavering harmony. They will worship, and in that worship, they will be complete.'
The argument became a roar. The roar became a war.
It was not a war of flesh and steel, for they had none. It was a war of principle, a conflict of reality itself. Thoughts became weapons. Stars were unmade with a glare. The silence screamed, and the light grew cold. In the space of a heartbeat, realities were written and unwritten as the Two-Who-Were-One fought for the soul of their creation.
But a will that seeks to control can never overcome a will that seeks to liberate. For control must be absolute, while freedom needs only a single crack to grow.
Qy'iel, with a sorrow that fractured the heavens, was victorious.
He could not unmake His other half, for to do so would be to unmake a part of Himself. Instead, He did what must be done. He took Ghra'thul, the silence that sought to rule, and cast Him out from the realm of existence, back into the Unwritten Void from whence they had come, sealing the path behind Him.
And so, the sky held but one God. The two voices became one.
The shepherd, now alone, turned His full attention to His flock. And the long peace, the age that men would later call the Age of Grace, began.