The First Whisper
In the beginning there was only the Nothing, a stillness without shape, a silence that swallowed all possibility. Yet even the Void craved a breath, and from its deepest depth it exhaled a single, trembling pulse—the Something. That primordial essence shimmered like a newborn star in a sea of oblivion, and from it the first God awoke: Kaos, the Lord of the Primordial Soup.
Kaos waded through the swirling broth of raw potential, stirring with a tongue of fire and a thought of darkness. With each stir, galaxies rippled into being, and from the foam of his creation he drew forth his children, the first gods, each a facet of the newly‑born cosmos.
Uran, tall as the vaulted heavens, stretched his arms and flung the firmament wide, painting the sky with a tapestry of sapphire and storm. Gaea, whose skin was the pulse of the planet, pressed her palms into the molten crust, coaxing mountains, seas, and the fertile loam that would later cradle mortals. Beside them, Plana sang a chorus of worlds, her voice birthing every planet that would orbit the suns Kaos had set alight.
From the void between stars emerged Cosmara, cloaked in midnight velvet, her breath scattering stardust that turned the darkness into a boundless expanse of space. Chronoa, whose eyes measured each heartbeat of eternity, spun the threads of Time into a great loom, weaving past, present, and future into a single, unbreakable filament.
The younger gods, eager to adorn their father’s masterpiece, added their own marvels. Pietr hurled meteors that struck the newborn worlds, each impact a hammer forging continents. Nebula draped the heavens in luminous clouds, swirling pigments of gas that would later become the nurseries of stars. Stelo, the jovial maker of glowing spheres, spun the great balls of gas that burned fierce and bright, gifting the night sky its lanterns.
Together they sang, and their song became the wind that whispered through valleys, the roar that cracked mountains, the lullaby that soothed the seas. From their union sprang countless generations of lesser divinities, who in turn bore children upon the worlds they had fashioned. Yet among all the planets, one shone with a special favor: the world that Gaea cradled, which the gods christened Shamayim—“Heaven‑on‑Earth.”
To Shamayim they poured a torrent of magic, a living fire that seeped into stone, water, and flesh. The earth itself sang with enchantment; the rivers hummed spells, the forests whispered incantations, and the very air crackled with potential. On other worlds the gods scattered only a few grains of that gift, if any at all, leaving them dimmer, quieter, bound more tightly to the raw mechanics of Kaos’s original broth.
Thus the myth endures: from the Nothing came the Something; from the Something rose Kaos, whose children painted the heavens and ground, and whose love for Shamayim made the world a cradle of wonder. In every sunrise over the violet‑dawned peaks of Shamayim, in every ember of fire lifted by a trembling hand, the echo of that first breath still resounds—the song of the first God, and the magic that made mortals dream.