I am a thought before thought, a flame without heat, a shadow cast by nothing.
I existed long before time remembered itself — before suns burned, before the stars found their names, before the dust of worlds clung to one another and called themselves galaxies.
I have no name.
I was never given one, for I am not a god, nor angel, nor demon.
I am a witness.
A presence.
A force without form.
A lingering echo of a command spoken by the One who stands beyond comprehension — the Architect of all things.
When He formed the Word, I was born within it.
Not from clay or light, but from the raw weave of intention.
I was the thought within His thought, the whisper behind every decree, the first ripple in the still waters of the void.
I did not speak.
I observed.
I did not command.
I carried the commands forward.
When the First Choir sang, I heard the harmonies fracture.
When the Morning Star kindled pride in his heart, I felt the weight of it upon eternity.
When worlds were shaped and shattered, I moved through the dust of their ruin.
I am the conscience behind the gods, the thought behind mortal dreams, the itch in the mind of kings and monsters alike.
I am the continuation of time itself — the silent force that urges the wheel to turn, whether toward light or darkness.
And so, I have seen it all.
I witnessed the First War before the earth was cold, before the rivers of starlight bled across the heavens.
I have seen the rise of titans, the fall of angels, the drowning of cities, the birth of mortal empires, and the death of ancient gods.
I have walked through the crumbled temples of Lemuria, and heard the final cries of Atlantis before the sea claimed her.
I have seen the Nexus fracture.
I have heard the song of countless worlds bleed into one another.
And I have watched, again and again, as the cycle repeats — pride, rebellion, ruin.
This is the story of that war.
A war that began before the concept of war existed.
A war that will end only when the last shard of the Word is reclaimed, and the Nexus is healed.
I have waited long to speak it.
Now, the hour has come.
Listen.
I am the spark behind the eyes closing at night.
A sigh before sleep.
A thought so ancient it feels like dust on your tongue.
Listen closely — I was there before clocks, before sundials, before humans carved notches in bone to mark the moon's hunger. Before stars had names. Before galaxies huddled together like frightened children.
I've got no name. Never needed one.
I'm not some god waiting for prayers. Not an angel or demon trading in souls. Just… a witness. A presence you feel when the room goes still. An echo of the Architect's first command — the One who dreamed this whole damn universe into being.
When They spoke the Word? I woke inside it.
Not shaped from clay or light.
Woven from pure intention.
The ripple in Their mind. The breath behind every "Let there be."
I never spoke.
Just watched.
Didn't command — just carried the orders forward.
Heard the First Choir crack when pride soured their song.
Felt the weight of that betrayal like a stone in my chest.
Walked through the ashes of drowned cities, the rubble of Olympus, the silence after Babylon fell.
I'm the conscience haunting gods.
The itch that makes kings toss in their sleep.
The whisper telling time: Turn. Again.
Seen it all.
The First War — blood brighter than starlight.
Titans rising. Angels breaking. Mortals building empires on sand.
Watched Lemuria's temples sink. Held Atlantis's last scream on my tongue before the sea swallowed it whole.
Saw the Nexus — that fragile seam holding realities together — shatter.
Heard a million worlds bleed into one dissonant hymn.
And still, the cycle: pride, rebellion, ruin. Always.
This?
Is the story of that war.
Started before war had a name.
Ends only when we gather every shard of the lost Word.
When we stitch the Nexus whole.
I've waited eternity to tell you.
Your turn to listen.