The world was a tapestry of divine veins and endless skies, threads woven by Selanyth and Kaerion themselves. Mountains rose like jagged fingers, their peaks kissed by clouds that danced to Kaerion's breath. Rivers of living crimson ran like molten veins across the land, flowing from Selanyth's pulse, feeding forests of silver-barked trees and meadows where flowers glimmered with dew that felt warm like blood. Valleys hummed with life, the grass vibrating with latent energy, and the air shimmered with a faint golden light wherever the divine touch lingered. Winds sang songs that carried tales of the gods themselves, weaving between soaring cliffs and waterfalls that tumbled like liquid starlight into crystal lakes, reflecting skies so vast that even Olympus itself seemed a distant memory. At night, the heavens swirled with auroras birthed from Kaerion's storms, and Selanyth's rivers glowed softly, illuminating the world with pulses of living crimson. Every creature, every leaf, every stone felt alive — thrumming with the divine breath of their creators.
Upon this world were born three children. Aelthar, whose laughter broke into thunder, and Symera, whose cries called tempests from the horizon. And Aelior, the youngest, who was given nothing. Where others held storms, he held silence. Where his siblings bloomed with power, he was an empty vessel.
The twins reveled in cruelty, striking him with stormbursts and thunderclaps, mocking his weakness, showing him how small he was beneath their might. Their parents pitied him but offered no hand. While Aelthar and Symera trained in fields where thunder split the air and storms lashed the earth, Aelior was left to sit in shadows, a spectator to powers that were never his.
And so, when the others slept, he trained in secret. On nights silvered by Selene's light, he carved his body into a weapon. He swung blades until his palms bled. He drew bows until his shoulders screamed. He fell upon the dirt a hundred times only to rise a hundred more. Alone. Always alone. Until one night, his father's voice broke the silence, soft and thunderous all at once: "It is not power that defines you, son. It is the refusal to yield." For the first time, Kaerion embraced the boy, and Aelior's tears fell into his father's robe like rain upon the storm. From that night forward, the powerless boy trained with fire in his chest.
When peace betrayed him, he was upon Erythros Peak. Six miles of climb to reach heaven itself — cliffs painted red at dawn, crowned with meadows of emerald grass woven soft as silk, and crowned further still by a waterfall that spilled like silver stars into eternity. Birds sang hymns within cedars, the air carried the perfume of pine and lilies that leaned toward the sun. Here, he felt whole. Here, he was not "nothing."
But peace is fragile. The sky cracked with a groan not of thunder but of nightmare. From shadows stepped Fernir, antlers of splintered bone curving like towers, eyes dripping black ink that hissed into smoke as it touched the air. With him came Seth, bound in corroded chains, each dragging link scraping stone into dust. Where Seth walked, flowers rotted, rivers withered into brown husks, and the very air seemed to age and crumble.
They descended upon Selanyth's and Kaerion's land not with heralds or warning, but with slaughter. Fernir whispered into sleeping villages, and mortals never woke again, bodies lying in silent, twisted repose. Seth dragged his chains across the temples, and marble cracked, statues corroded into dust, and priests' hair whitened and fell as their bodies withered before screams left their throats. Olympus quaked.
Kaerion rose, his voice breaking into storm. Winds howled from his chest, a roar that bent forests flat, skies trembling with pale lightning. Selanyth walked beside him, her steps birthing rivers of living blood, crimson blossoms unfurling only to close in terror as Seth's decay touched them. The twins were commanded to flee, their mother's voice sharp as steel, but curiosity and arrogance rooted them in shadow.
The clash began like the birth of worlds. Kaerion struck first, winds spiraling into hurricanes that tore mountainsides apart. Fernir laughed, his voice a low chime, and dreams bled into reality — Kaerion's own gales turned traitor, twisting into storms that lashed his flesh. Selanyth's veins pulsed outward, rivers rising like serpents, crimson torrents slashing across Fernir's chest. His corpse-pale skin tore, bone antlers cracking, ink spilling from the wound.
Seth moved slowly, each step a century, each breath a dying sun. He lifted his corroded hand, and Selanyth's blossoms blackened, her rivers slowed into tar, vitality curdling into rot. She screamed, blood surging back against his decay, her aura pouring crimson light that painted the sky. For every flower that wilted, two more clawed through the earth.
Fernir leapt, antlers carving across Kaerion's storms, his false prophecies whispering into the winds: "Your son will die forgotten." The storm faltered. Thunder cried false, and Kaerion staggered. Selanyth's scream lashed him back, veins binding Fernir's limbs like shackles. Together, storm and vein united, and with a cry that split the air, Kaerion hurled Fernir into the ground while Selanyth's rivers pierced through his chest. Bone antlers shattered. Ink poured in floods. The god of broken dreams screamed, and for the first time, silence followed.
But victory is a liar. Seth had not moved. He had waited. Chains rattled. With one step, he crossed eternity. His hand, skeletal and rusting, touched Selanyth's throat. Crimson flowers rotted black. Her veins burst inward, the rivers consuming her body. She gasped, reaching for her children in the shadows, before her body withered into dust that scattered across the winds.
Kaerion roared, a storm that clawed the sky apart. Lightning blazed, winds shrieked, Olympus itself shuddered. He lunged at Seth with the fury of endless heavens. Seth exhaled. The storm slowed, winds dragging as though through eternity. Kaerion aged in a blink — black hair whitening, eyes dimming, skin cracking like old parchment. His scream of thunder died into a rasp as Seth's chains coiled around him, dragging him to his knees. With a twist, the God of Withering Time crumbled the sovereign of skies into ash.
The twins watched. Horror cracked their arrogance into terror. They turned to flee, thunder and storm trembling upon their lips. Fernir stirred, body shattered yet not undone. His eyes wept fresh ink. His voice slid into their ears, silky and cruel: "Your lives were never yours." He raised a hand, and nightmares pierced them. Aelthar screamed as invisible hands ripped sound from his throat; thunder bled from him in a final, broken laugh before his body collapsed in silence. Symera spun in winds that sliced her flesh, her storm turning upon her. Her final cry was drowned in her own tempest before her body tore apart, scattered like leaves across the rot.
The world burned. Blossoms lay in heaps of blackened rot. Skies dimmed. The earth trembled beneath the weight of gods' fury. Villages silenced forever. Blood and ash mingled in rivers of ruin. Aelior, powerless, unseen, huddled in terror beneath Erythros Peak as the universe shook. He had no thunder. No storm. No vein, no sky. Only his heartbeat, stubborn and fragile. Only his breath. Only himself.
And in that silence, forgotten by gods and swallowed by chaos, began the story of the god who was born with nothing.