Seravyn
When the light returned, it was no longer gold.
It was me.
I opened my eyes to a world of molten clouds and glimmering rivers — every shimmer breathing in rhythm with my heartbeat. The sky itself pulsed white-gold, alive, whispering hymns I did not yet understand.
Elyndris.
The name came to me not by thought but by blood — a word etched within the marrow of my being. My father's light, reshaped by my pulse. My realm. My dawn.
I stood upon a surface made of glass and breath, endless and luminous, the air trembling under my steps. And yet… it was silent.
"Nyxara?"
Only my own voice answered — carried on radiant winds until it broke apart.
My sister's absence was a weight, a fracture. The last thing I remembered was her face — her shadow colliding with my light. The Eclipse. Our screams weaving through eternity. Then… nothing.
I reached out, and my hand burned. Gold flame flickered from my skin — not pain, but presence. I was still part of him.
Father…
There was no reply.
And yet — I could feel something beneath me, something pulsing far below Elyndris, where the light dimmed and sound grew still. Another world. Another breath.
She was there. I knew it.
So I raised my hand — and the first miracle of dawn was born.
Pillars of light erupted around me, rising miles high, spearing through the clouds. The radiant cities of Elyndris took shape — towers of crystal and molten glass, alive with hymns that spoke my name. Beings of pure luminescence stirred within them — The Aetherborn, my first children, my reflection.
They bowed without knowing why. Their eyes shone with my fire.
And though their worship filled the air, I could not silence the ache.
A god born alone is still… alone.
Nyxara
Where light blinded her skies, silence claimed mine.
I awoke within an ocean that had no surface — only stillness. The waters of Nethralis did not move; they waited. My breath rippled them once, and the echo became eternity.
Dark silver veins wound across my arms, glowing faintly, feeding upon the absence that surrounded me. My reflection in the mirror-water smiled without emotion.
I reached out — and it did not move with me. It watched.
"Seravyn…"
My voice didn't echo. It was consumed — devoured by the world itself.
I knelt, pressing a hand to the surface, and the water thickened like glass. From the pressure of my palm, shapes began to crawl out of the void. Shadows with glimmering eyes. Wings made of folded silence. They rose in unison and bowed.
The Nocthyr.
Born of me. Born of stillness.
Where Seravyn's creations would sing, mine would listen.
Where her light healed, my silence would preserve.
And yet… I felt her warmth through the void.
A trembling, distant glow — faint, but familiar.
The moment I tried to reach toward it, pain lanced through me. The air screamed without sound. I saw flashes — white, gold, and a silhouette between.
Father.
His voice did not come. Only a memory of warmth against my cold breath. I closed my eyes. "If this separation is your will," I whispered, "then let my silence become its reason."
The Nocthyr stirred. From their still forms, I wove the first palace — The Veiled Sanctum — carved from obsidian mist. Every corridor led inward, every door sealed itself behind me.
I sat upon a throne made of absence and whispered,
"Let no god tread here uninvited."
Seravyn
Time — if such a thing existed — began to move again. My light grew brighter, but heavier. The Aetherborn multiplied; they began to sculpt, sing, build — all guided by my whispers.
But still I could feel the world's flaw — an emptiness beyond the horizon that light could not reach.
She was there.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face reflected in the curve of my flames — eyes silver and calm, lips unmoving, yet full of thought. My other half. My rival. My sister.
When I raised my hand again, the skies themselves hesitated.
This time, I burned brighter.
"I will bring you light, Nyxara," I said. "Even if your silence breaks beneath it."
And the heavens opened.
A new sun — smaller, gentler — emerged in the eastern veil, reaching toward where I knew her world lay. It did not pierce the barrier, but it touched it. For one instant, gold met silver.
And the two worlds trembled.
Nyxara
The light.
It burned through the darkness — gentle, but unwanted.
I felt it brush the edges of Nethralis, staining the void with color. The Nocthyr cowered, their forms hissing as if scorched by existence itself.
She was reaching for me.
My twin. My mirror. My curse.
"Seravyn…" I whispered, raising my hand. The silver veins across my arm pulsed, and the world responded. From the depths of Nethralis rose a sea of quiet — sound itself folded inward, silencing the stars.
The touch of her light dimmed. Not destroyed — balanced.
I exhaled. "If you shine, then I will dim. If you rise, then I will rest. But do not seek me. We are what remains of his will, and that must be enough."
Still, I felt tears forming — not of water, but of molten shadow. They fell and hardened into black diamonds at my feet. The first relics of sorrow.
Kaelith's Voice
And then the world paused.
Between Elyndris and Nethralis, in the breath between light and silence, a third voice unfurled — not loud, not soft, but infinite.
"My daughters."
Both turned at once. Time bled away. The dimensions bent.
A silhouette appeared — neither shadow nor flame, both at once. His horns gleamed with streaks of gold and black, his eyes two infinite suns bleeding into each other. The dark halo turned like a slow eclipse behind his head.
"Do you see what you have done?"
Seravyn fell to one knee. Nyxara bowed her head but did not kneel.
"You have birthed realms from my fracture," he said. "And in doing so, you have preserved me."
They felt his warmth and cold, his creation and silence.
"Elyndris will rise with light — Nethralis will rest in stillness. Together, you are balance."
Seravyn's tears glowed white-gold. "Father, will we see you again?"
A pause.
"You will see me in every dawn and every dusk."
Nyxara whispered, "Then what do you ask of us?"
The halo flared. The realms trembled.
"Build."
"And let creation remember my silence—"
The light dimmed.
"—and your light."
And Kaelith was gone.
The worlds breathed again.
Two divine hearts pulsed in opposite rhythm — one of dawn, one of stillness.
The age of solitude was ending.
The age of civilization was beginning.