Before the first prayer was ever whispered, God reigned.
Not as king, nor tyrant, nor judge—but as truth made will. His holiness was not learned; it was endured. Creation bowed not from fear, but because standing was impossible in His presence. The Laws flowed from Him like breath—gravity, time, cause, consequence—each one sacred, each one unbreakable.
Until something outside sanctity looked upon Him… and did not kneel.
It had no name, for names are acts of creation, and it was born of negation. Where God was command, it was refusal. Where God was light, it was not darkness—but the absence of permission. A hunger vast enough to swallow meaning itself.
It did not seek the Throne.
It sought God.
When they clashed, the universe did not merely shake—it unlearned itself.
God's wrath poured forth in holy fire, a radiance that unmade dimensions and scoured entire eternities clean. Galaxies were torn from their paths and cast into oblivion. Time screamed as it folded inward, futures collapsing into ash before they could be born. Angels were reduced to echoes. The Laws cracked, bleeding paradox and chaos into reality.
Yet the enemy endured.
It struck not with strength, but with corruption—wounding the foundations of holiness itself. Every blow denied God's absoluteness. Every moment of the battle forced creation to ask a forbidden question:
What if God could end?
The final clash shattered heaven.
God unleashed all that He was—His name, His will, His eternity—burning brighter than existence could contain. The enemy answered by devouring that light, tearing through divinity with blasphemous hunger.
And God died.
There was no scream.
No judgment.
No salvation.
Only the sudden, unbearable silence of a universe that no longer had a center.
The Throne collapsed. The Laws fell into ruin. Reality survived only by instinct, stitched together by fading remnants of His holiness. The enemy vanished—wounded, not destroyed—leaving behind a cosmos scarred beyond repair.
But death could not hold what God was.
In the instant of His unmaking, something was set in motion. A spark, stripped of memory and majesty, slipped beyond the reach of the enemy. Not a king. Not a ruler.
A beginning.
Far from the shattered heavens, in a corner of existence forgotten by eternity, a child would one day draw breath—fragile, mortal, unnamed.
And no one would know
that the dead God had returned