At first, the morning was ordinary.
The bells of Edris rang above the fog, merchants called across stone bridges, and the scent of ash bread carried through the streets.
Children chased wooden hoops through alleys painted with sunlight.
The world breathed in rhythm — unknowing that its last calm breath had just been taken.
Then the light changed.
A strange hum rippled through the sky — low at first, like thunder buried beneath the earth. The clouds froze, as if pinned by invisible nails.
Every bird stopped mid-flight. The air itself grew thick, pressing against the skin like the weight of unseen water.
From the northern mountains, where no mortal dared tread, two beams erupted — one golden, one black — spiraling together like twin serpents piercing the heavens. They twisted upward, dragging storms in their wake, devouring sunlight.
And then the sky broke.
It didn't shatter like glass — it peeled, folding outward in slow, soundless agony, revealing a wound of light and shadow beyond comprehension. Gold and dark poured into each other, creating a hole vast enough to drown the sun.
A soldier at the gates of Aderon lifted his head as his spear trembled in his hand.
The air was ringing, vibrating with a sound that wasn't sound at all. He tried to shout, but his voice was gone — stolen by the sight of the two burning pillars clawing the clouds apart. His armor grew hot. The banners of his god ignited on their poles.
A child, sitting on her roof, thought it was dawn coming early. She smiled, pointing at the golden light, until it split the horizon open. Her mother's scream carried through the smoke as the sky turned to liquid fire.
A priest of the old faith fell to his knees inside his temple. His prayers faltered mid-verse. The name of his god slipped from his tongue like melting wax. Behind his eyes, he saw a throne of blood and light — and seated upon it, something vast and faceless that watched him back.
A mother clutched her baby as the light turned red. The stones beneath her feet cracked, glowing from within. She pressed her forehead to the ground, whispering any name that might listen.
Everywhere, mortals screamed and prayed, but their voices reached only silence.
The two beams grew thicker, swirling until the rift became an eye — an endless, celestial wound. Within it, shapes moved. Two colossal figures drifted in the void above, their silhouettes divine and terrible.
Time stuttered.
Every mind saw something different — a vision branded into the soul.
Some saw the Twins of Balance descending in radiant grace. Others saw monsters wearing light as armor. A few saw Kaelith's throne rising behind them, veiled in silence and fire.
For one heartbeat, all things were one — thought, memory, terror, faith — and then the sky sealed shut with a thunderclap that cracked mountains.
Darkness returned.
Ash fell like snow.
No one spoke. No one dared.
In the days that followed, survivors named it not The Day the Sky Split as scholars would later call it — but something simpler, older, instinctive.
They called it "The Sundering of Faith."
Because after that day, no prayer ever sounded the same again.