In the aftermath of the First War, the Heavens were scarred.
The choirs sang their hymns with a strange, mournful edge.
The light of the highest realms dimmed, for the loss of so many brethren had struck even the eternal firmament.
The places where proud thrones once gleamed now stood empty, and though eternity stretched on, a silence lingered between the verses of the Celestial Song.
But the Architect — eternal, unyielding, infinite — did not halt His design.
For even in ruin, creation moves onward.
And I witnessed it.
I felt it stir before the Heavens had healed.
Even before the fires of rebellion cooled, the Architect turned His gaze toward the Lower Realms — places where light and matter churned in chaotic seas, where time itself had yet to settle into its cycle.
And there, adrift in the endless void, He fixed His will upon a single, unshaped sphere.
Earth.
A world of water and stone, of dust and flame.
Mountains rose like ancient titans sleeping beneath a primal sky.
Seas churned with restless tides, their currents carrying the first formless stirrings of life.
The winds spoke in tongues unknown, and the darkness waited to be named.
And upon its barren soil, the Architect began His greatest work.
I saw Him lay the foundations — the laws of gravity and heat, the unseen forces that would bind the stars and planets in their eternal spirals.
He spoke, and the sun blazed into being, a jewel of fire to mark the passage of time.
He called forth the moon, a faithful companion to light the night.
He scattered the stars like a painter's hand spilling radiant dust across the void, setting constellations in patterns that would one day guide mortal sailors and seers.
From the waters, He drew forth creatures of scale and fin, of wing and feather, of fur and fang.
Beasts of the field and cunning things that crawled in hidden places.
Life, in endless diversity.
But this — this was not the pinnacle.
For upon a stretch of land known in your tongues as Eden, He shaped something new.
Not as the angels had been made — not of pure thought and fire — but of earth itself, of dust and clay, tempered with breath from His own essence.
Adam.
A being not born of Heaven, yet carrying a spark no angel ever held — the spark of freedom.
The power of will.
The breath of the Architect entered him, and in that moment, Adam awoke.
His eyes opened upon a world untouched by death or sorrow.
The air shimmered with purity, and the earth hummed with ancient song.
I watched as the choirs gathered to behold him.
Even those who had once followed Lucifer gazed upon Adam's form in secret awe, for here was a creature neither wholly divine nor wholly base.
He bore the mark of both Heaven and earth.
The Architect gave Adam dominion over the creatures of the earth.
Eden flourished.
Rivers of silver coursed through meadows so green no mortal eye would ever again behold their like.
Trees bore fruit untouched by decay.
The air sang with the resonance of unspoiled creation.
Yet Adam was alone.
And so, from his own flesh, the Architect shaped a companion.
Eve.
The first woman.
A mirror to Adam's form.
Equal in thought, in spirit, and in grace.
Not merely made to serve, but to walk beside.
Together, they moved through the garden, naming the beasts, tending the trees, drinking from crystalline rivers.
They spoke with the angels, and their days were marked by peace.
But in the far corners of creation, where light barely reached, Lucifer watched.
Though cast down, though his form was changed, though his glory diminished, his will remained unbroken.
And when he beheld the beings of flesh — frail, flawed, and yet gifted with the spark of will — his hatred stirred.
What were these creatures, shaped of dust and clay, that they should be granted dominion?
Why should they bear the breath of the Architect, when the Morning Star himself had been cast out?
It was not envy alone that drove him — but purpose.
For if he could not storm the Heavens, he would corrupt that which the Heavens cherished.
He found his vessel — a creature of cunning, ancient beyond reckoning:
The Serpent.
Through it, Lucifer spoke.
In the cool of the evening, as the sun dipped low and the light turned to amber, Eve found herself near the heart of the garden.
There stood the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.
Its fruit gleamed with otherworldly radiance — beautiful, yet forbidden.
And the serpent's voice came to her, gentle and terrible, sweet as honey, sharp as glass.
"Did God truly say you must not eat from any tree in the garden?"
And with those words, the seed of doubt was planted.
I watched as Eve considered.
As the notion took root.
As Adam too was drawn into the question.
For the Architect had given them will — and with will comes choice.
When Eve reached out her hand, and Adam took the fruit from her palm, a new thread was spun in the loom of fate.
A thread of shadow and sorrow.
The fruit passed their lips.
And in that instant, their eyes were opened.
They saw not only beauty, but also decay.
Not only life, but also death.
They beheld the world as it truly was — both glory and ruin interwoven.
The harmony of Eden shattered.
The Architect, in His unyielding justice, cast them from the garden.
The gates were sealed by flames and by the swords of the Seraphim.
The earth itself was changed.
The rivers dimmed.
The trees lost their luster.
And the beasts grew wary.
Yet even in their exile, a promise was made.
That from their line would one day come a deliverer.
One who would break the chains of rebellion.
One who would silence the serpent's tongue forever.
I knew this promise.
I felt its weight upon the threads of time.
For though Eden was lost, and Earth now bore the stain of rebellion, the story was far from done.
The earth would bear nations.
The angels would walk among mortals.
Ancient kings would rise and fall.
The Seven Shards of the Word would be sought and stolen.
The veil between realms would thin.
The war that began in Heaven would find new battlegrounds.
And I, as ever, would move unseen through the currents beneath it all.
For I was made to make things happen.