In the beginning, there was only the Nothing.
Not the void as we know it, but a silence without time, an absence without space, an existence without being. An abyss without name or limit, where not even the idea of darkness could exist, for even a shadow needs light to exist in contrast.
From Nothing, nothing is born. And yet, beneath the burden of its own eternity, the Nothing trembled.
That disturbance, an echo with no origin, a shudder with no cause, gave rise to Chaos,
"Vanull-rath."
Not an entity, but a vast, pulsating expanse, unstable, overflowing with raw and formless potential.
Chaos was the first breath of existence, an ocean of conflicting possibilities, where everything was and was not at the same time.
And within the heart of that Chaos, something singular happened: movement.
Where before there had been no direction, impulse was born. From impulse came Conflict, the eternal clash between forces that did not yet know their names, yet already knew they existed in opposition to one another.
It was the birth of Duality.
From that first clash emerged two primordial principles:
Pózhar, the Position:
the affirmative force that drives, defines, structures, and raises.
Velkar, the Opposition:
the reactive force that challenges, destroys, dissolves, and liberates.
They were neither good nor evil. They were necessity, yet futility. Like the heartbeat of a world not yet born, yet already destined to perish.
From the violent dance between Pózhar and Velkar, the first forms emerged—not created by will, but shaped by the friction of colliding forces:
Matter,
compelled by Pózhar.
Time,
unleashed by Velkar.
Space,
defined in the collision between advance and retreat.
Consciousness,
an accidental spark born between pressure and rupture.
And so, the universe came into being not from a plan, but from conflict.
Not from love, but from tension.
Not from gods, but from chaos.
The first Ground, the Root World, as the ancients called it, was formed from the ashes of that first clash. Its skies were woven from the torn veils of Chaos. Its mountains were raised by the accumulated weight of Position. Its abysses were carved by the impatient claws of Opposition.
And that is why everything that exists carries within it the seed of conflict.
Every star bears the desire to explode.
Every living being carries within itself the doubt that shapes it.
And every act of creation is, above all else, a battle won against Nothing itself.
And so, only after all things had come to exist did the Light arise:
"Lux-Lu-Rath,"
the first conscious radiance, not merely light, but revelation. The light that knew it was light.
And because every revelation demands a boundary, its opposite was born:
"Ca-Tez-Rath,"
the Darkness, not the primordial Nothing, but the veil that refuses, that conceals, that hides what does not wish to be seen.
The Light revealed the path, but it was Darkness that taught mystery.
And so, balance became not merely confrontation, but choice.
Every act of creation, every idea, every life, a fragile thread stretched between revelation and concealment, between raising and ruin, between Pózhar and Velkar, between Lux-Lu-Rath and Ca-Tez-Rath.
And in the end, everything that exists...
...exists only because it continues to resist the call of Nothing.
✦ ✦ ✦
"Honestly... it doesn't matter what world you're in. Creation myths are never boring."
The words slipped from my lips in a lazy murmur as my fingers rested on the rough cover of the ancient book. Its surface was scarred with dried veins, layers of settled dust, and dark stains left by time itself.
I sank a little deeper into the creaking wooden chair, letting the backrest embrace me as I laced my fingers behind my head. The book remained open on my lap, its yellowed pages trembling beneath the sluggish breeze drifting through the poorly sealed window.
"Too bad old Alexander was never all that interested in creation myths..." I remarked lightly, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "If he had been, he'd have an entire arsenal of theories to compare with the absurdities he loves coming up with."
My gaze wandered to the uneven stone ceiling, tracing the fine cracks that ran between the wooden beams. Like everything else in that place, it carried the weight of age.
In Asgardia, there were countless stories about the birth of the world myths, legends, philosophical theories, and the ramblings of old madmen, but the one most widely accepted among scholars and academics was the
Kauren-Rath
, or
"The Conflict of the First Voices."
In front of me stood an oak table, stained, chipped, and slightly unstable, buried beneath a chaotic pile of books. Some had torn covers, others lay open to pages marked with strips of cloth, half-finished notes scribbled in the margins, and annotations I'd made in graphite and charcoal.
Loose papers spilled out between the volumes. Some were crumpled, others held in place by improvised paperweights, a few smooth stones, an empty teacup, and even a sheathed dagger.
"Vanull-Rath... Lux-Lu-Rath... Ca-Tez-Rath..."
I repeated the names slowly, as though tasting each syllable. They carried a ritual cadence, as if they had been meant to be chanted by priests before forgotten altars.
"These people really knew how to dramatize the birth of the universe."
I looked back down at the book, running a finger over the passage I'd just read, as though I could absorb the words through my skin.
"If everything begins with conflict... then maybe that's why no one ever escapes it."
A heavy sigh escaped me.
I ran a hand through my hair, still tied back haphazardly with an improvised cord, and felt a few rebellious strands slip loose, falling across the side of my face and into my vision. I didn't bother moving them aside.
"Too bad this library doesn't have any truly important books."
Hours had passed since my bath and the rushed breakfast I'd grabbed at the cafeteria. The library had become my temporary home, and I had to admit, the old librarian alone made the trip worthwhile. There was something rare about him: wisdom born not from books, but from life itself.
The only problem was the distance.
My quarters were half an hour away on foot. Time I could hardly afford to waste when there were still so many pages waiting to be devoured.
And contrary to what I'd expected, no one bothered me.
Maybe it was respect. Maybe fear. Or maybe no one cared anymore.
Whatever the reason, the result was the same.
Absolute silence.
Every now and then, the sound of footsteps broke the stillness between the shelves, but it was never anything noteworthy. Lost squires. People cutting through the library to escape the afternoon sun. Few even knew about the map room, or the dust-covered section filled with ancient scrolls.
Most of the books were ordinary, manuals, introductory treatises, lunar calendars, taxonomies of mundane animals.
Even so, scattered among the monotony were occasional gems: introductory swordsmanship, simplified guerrilla warfare, hunting with natural traps, elementary alchemy, poisons and their antidotes, the fundamentals of magic, sacred power, demonic arts, and spiritual techniques.
Always enough to spark curiosity.
Never enough to create a master.
The older volumes held something different: records of the Black Forest, accounts concerning the Family, reports of anomalies scattered throughout the kingdom, fragments recovered from expeditions into the Sea of Darkness.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
The silence felt sacred.
Dust danced through the shafts of light filtering in from the grimy windows. The shelves creaked softly, as though the books themselves breathed in secret. Outside, the wind played through the treetops. In here, only the rustle of turning pages reminded me that time still moved forward.
Reading, to me, was more than a pastime.
It was armor.
Against the anxiety gnawing at me from within. Against the memories of everything I'd left behind, and everything that still awaited me.
Opening a book was like taking a deep breath in a room where the air finally didn't weigh on my lungs.
And within that sanctuary of paper and ink, limited though it was, surrounded by dusty shelves and unremarkable titles, I found something I could never quite name.
Peace, perhaps.
Or the closest thing to it I was capable of reaching.
The books were modest.
Simple stories, without great ambition.
But they were enough.
They filled the emptiness left by all the time I'd spent deprived of them, like water pouring perfectly into the shape of an empty glass.
Or at least, that's what I believed.
But Sylas, the god of luck and deceit, worshipped and cursed in equal measure, has the infuriating habit of intervening when least expected.
And on that day, perhaps as compensation for everything that had gone wrong on my first day in that place, he decided to bless me.
Or at least, that's what I preferred to believe.
"Young Alexander..."
I looked up from the book I had been leafing through.
The librarian was making his way toward my table with slow, measured steps, but there was something different about him today. A spark of excitement that didn't quite match the knees that were clearly protesting every stride.
"Although this place holds very little that would truly interest you..." He paused to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling gently.
"...I believe that, this time, you're going to be pleasantly surprised."
I turned in my chair.
And immediately regretted not having stood up out of sheer respect for the effort.
"By Velmior's beard..."
I couldn't tell whether what I felt was concern or pure excitement.
Perhaps both, fighting for control of my expression.
The old man wasn't alone.
Three others accompanied him, every pair of arms contributing to a solemn, collective task: carrying a book.
No,
carrying
was far too small a word.
They bore the thing. Thick, enormous, nearly as tall as I was, as though they were hauling a stone slab.
THUD.
The impact echoed through the entire library.
The table didn't break, which, honestly, was the most impressive thing I'd witnessed so far.
I jerked in surprise, my chair creaked, and from the corner where Axel had settled into a makeshift fortress of worn spines and battered covers came a sound.
"Rr... aau...?" His ears shot upright.
His eyes went wide, scanning the room on high alert.
He looked like someone who had awakened ready for battle, only to find a panting old librarian, three embarrassed assistants, and me trying, and failing, to suppress the laughter escaping at the corners of my mouth.
"Our apologies, little Axel." The librarian dipped his head slightly, a trace of amusement coloring his voice. "We'll be more careful next time."
Axel let out a series of grumbling noises, sounding very much as though he were muttering something along the lines of,
'There'll be a next time?'
But before long, he curled back up between the books, rebuilding his paper citadel with the wounded dignity of someone who refused to admit he'd been startled.
I turned my attention to the book.
Three tables had been pushed together just so it would fit.
The pages I could glimpse along the edges were thick and yellowed, filled with dark-ink illustrations.
"By Velmior's beard..." I repeated, this time more quietly.
"Did you happen to raid the Halls of Darnor's Memory?"
"Who's to say?" The old man feigned innocence with a crooked smile.
That alone was enough to explain why I already liked him, despite having known him for less than a day.
"What I
do
know is that it's exactly the sort of thing you'd be interested in." I questioned him silently but never asked aloud.
My excitement wouldn't let me.
"What child doesn't love stories of knights, fortresses, and young maidens?" he continued, while his assistants eagerly seized the opportunity to retreat toward the shelves.
"And this volume contains many such tales."
He paused.
"...One of them, in particular..." A genuine gleam crossed his tired eyes.
"I believe it's going to surprise you."
The title was engraved across the cover in faded gold lettering.
It was more self-explanatory than every minute of the old man's rambling combined.
Tales of Great Knights and Princesses.
✦ ✦ ✦
The library devoured me.
There was no resistance.
Not even an attempt at it.
The hours slipped away unnoticed, and by the time awareness finally returned, it came wrapped in the muffled stillness of night and the strange lightness of having fallen asleep without remembering to close my eyes.
I was lying on the floor beneath one of the tables, surrounded by dozens of books stacked into the walls of a small fortress of my own.
For a moment, I simply stared at the ceiling.
Honestly?
I was seriously considering moving my quarters there.