The First Garden
When the Heavens were established and the hosts raised in splendor, He who Is, in His infinite will, looked beyond the firmament and desired more.
For the love that creates is also the love that expands.
And so He spoke: — "Let there be worlds where my song echoes in a thousand forms. Let there be lands where my memory flourishes in color and life."
From the hidden Word, whispered in the core of space, the first fields of existence were born.
They did not sprout from the earth, for there was no earth yet.
They did not come from the water, for there was no sea yet.
They were established in the breath, shaped by thoughts older than light itself.
The First Worlds emerged, suspended like jewels in the dark cloak.
And each world was different, for each was a particle of the Infinite — some worlds shimmered with silver seas; others burned with golden embers; others still slept under skies that would never see dawn.
And it was said: — "Just as the song is one, but has many notes, so shall Creation be."
The First Division
But the gesture that sowed life also divided.
For where Creation spreads, the need for separation arises: of the high and the low, the visible and the hidden, the ascending and the descending.
Thus, He who Is drew the first great line: separated the Heavens from the Earth, the Essence from Matter, the Spirit from Form.
And it was written: — "That which is spirit shall dwell in the Heavens; that which is form shall rest in the worlds."
The First Garden — the Eden of the beginnings — was born from the purity of intention, an uncorrupted land where the Word walked still fresh upon the newly created soil.
There, the Virtues, under the order of the Most High, shaped invisible rivers of force that nourished the worlds.
The Powers watched over the boundaries between spirit and flesh.
The Dominions mapped the course of future ages, writing in the winds the destiny of nations yet to come.
The Ancient Silence
But in the roots of the worlds, the primordial void slumbered — not as a declared enemy, but as a nameless memory, a forgotten echo.
And it was said in secret: — "Every foundation carries within it the seed of ruin, and every beginning, its own end."
Thus, while the stars twinkled young and the worlds still sang in harmony, the first invisible crack snaked through the silence, waiting.
And Creation continued, perfect in its imperfection.
The Firstborn
When the worlds established their foundations under the song of the Most High, the Virtues were tasked with sowing not only landscapes and seas but also consciousnesses.
And thus, the Firstborn emerged.
They were not men, for the clay had not yet been shaped.
They were living flames, thinking rivers, walking mountains, winds that whispered forgotten names.
They were the flesh of the world itself, beings whose bodies were made of light, stone, water, and breath.
They were called Eranthi, the Children of the First Garden.
They flourished in harmony with the soil that bore them.
They drank from the invisible sap that ran through the veins of Creation.
They were innocent, without knowledge of evil or lies, for the Shadow was still but a distant murmur.
The Expansion of Eden
The First Garden — the Primeval Eden — was vast beyond the measure of the stars.
It was not a single place, but many interconnected mirrors, linked by rivers of golden light.
Each world was like a petal of the same divine flowering, and upon each petal, the Eranthi guarded the purity of the primordial song.
There, there was no death, no hunger, no separation.
Time, still young, flowed like a serene lake, and ages passed without aging the mountains or darkening the skies.
The Oath of the Orders
Seeing the wonder that had sprouted, He who Is summoned the Celestial Orders.
Mikael, Prince of the Armies, raised his sword in oath: — "We shall guard the worlds with fire and glory, and any evil that arises within them shall be crushed before it can flourish."
Gabriel, Voice of the Most High, sang over the heavens: — "We shall announce the divine decrees in all tongues, so that even the stone and the wind may know them."
And Rafael, Healing Hand, promised: — "Where there is a wound, we shall bring healing; where there is breakage, we shall bring repair."
Thus were the watchtowers of Creation set, and the Celestial Orders crossed the worlds through Bridges of Lumen — arcs of pure essence that tore the veil between worlds without harming them.
The First Wound
However, not every spark wished to remain bound to the song.
Among the Eranthi, some began to desire what had not been given to them: the power to create in their own image, to shape worlds for themselves.
Small dissonances arose in the perfect chant.
Broken notes that gradually became their own melodies, distant from the Word.
And in the center of the First Garden, where the light was purest, the first rupture opened — invisible but fatal.
It was there, unnoticed by the hosts, that the Ancient Silence began to rise, slow as a slumbering serpent.
And it was decreed in secret that not even Creation would escape the choice between love and pride.
The First Fall
It was among the Eranthi that the first rebellion ignited.
Driven by a silent thirst — not for hunger, but for their own identity — some distanced themselves from the Chant.
They disconnected from the sources of the primordial sap and, in doing so, corrupted their own essence.
These were called Nal'Zir, the Dissolved.
Their bodies, once resplendent like dawns, became pale and hollow.
The earth they trod withered; the river they drank dried up.
No longer parts of the world, they became wounds within it.
Living tears, haunting the confines of the Primeval Eden.
The First Conflict
When the Nal'Zir broke their bonds, Mikael wielded his blade for the first time not against a beast or wild creature — but against those who had once been brothers.
Blood — or whatever the Eranthi had in its place — soaked the roots of Eden.
And for the first time, the Chant was interrupted by a scream.
The Orders, dismayed, hesitated.
Until that moment, there had never been a need to choose between compassion and justice.
The Most High, in His unfathomable patience, allowed freedom to take its course, for without choice, there would be no love — only servitude.
The Shadow Grows
However, the rupture of the Eranthi was only the harbinger.
In the depths of the Heavens, a watchful eye contemplated what was unfolding: Samael, the Firstborn of Light.
He, who had walked among the worlds raising bridges and swords, began to question in silence:
"Why protect flawed beings? Why perpetuate Creation if it generates corruption in its cradle?"
His wings, once white as dawns, began to blacken with the embers of hidden pride.
Samael would not rebel yet, but the seed of doubt, cast into the fertile soil of free will, began to germinate.
The Decree of the Veil
Seeing that harmony was breaking, He who Is raised a new barrier between the worlds: the Veil of Separation.
The Primeval Eden was veiled.
The petals of the worlds, once open to each other, were folded upon themselves.
Communication between worlds became a labor of the angels, no longer a natural bridge.
It was both protection and sentence:
The worlds would now be fields of individual choices.
None would be sustained solely by initial purity.
Each race, each creature, each heart would have to choose with every beat to whom it would belong:
to the Light...
or to the Shadow.
And the Great Silence settled over Eden — not as an absence of sound, but as a terrible expectation, laden with the future.
And thus, the Primeval Eden became but a memory echoing in the dreams of the worlds.
The Secret of the Most High
While the Eranthi struggled between Light and Corruption, the Most High — He who Is — descended into the depths of Silence, where no gaze from the Heavens could reach Him.
There, in absolute secrecy, He shaped with His own hands a new creation.
Not from the primordial rivers, nor from the eternal winds.
Not from the embers that sustain stars, nor from the sap of the worlds.
But from the simplest dust.
From the matter forgotten at the margin of Creation.
And to be the first mold, He created something even more infinitesimal: a distant copy — diluted, diminished — of His own divine essence.
The First Mold
This form was fragile.
Without the resplendent light of the angels.
Without the innate vigor of the Eranthi.
Without the brilliance of the astral beasts.
It was... small.
Limited.
As mortal as a flame in the wind.
But there was something in it that had never existed in any being:
an empty space within the chest, where the sap of Creation could sprout not by force, but by will.
It was the seed of miracle.
The capacity to grow beyond its own origin.
The Breath
Kneeling over the mold of dust, the Most High whispered:
— Arise...
And breathed upon it.
The dust trembled.
The lifeless fibers intertwined.
The fragile flesh clothed the hollow bones.
And thus, the First Man opened his eyes under a sky not yet touched by death.
His name was not engraved on the celestial stones, for it was a secret, a beginning that not even the Archangels dared to comprehend.
But in every beat of his heart pulsed something that not even Mikael, nor Samael, nor all the legions could imitate:
the spark of overcoming.
The Veiled Motive
God did not create him to compete with the stars.
Not to shine brighter than the heavens.
He created him for something infinitely more dangerous:
To love without being forced.
To choose, even with the possibility of failure.
And because he was weak, his victory would have more value than a thousand eternities of innate perfection.
The Echo in Heaven
The Heavens, however, would not remain ignorant forever.
Some angels felt the disturbance.
Some heard the rumor of the Breath in the depths.
And Samael, whose gaze had already become shadow, felt the shudder of reality.
If the Most High, in all His power, could love so deeply something so inferior...
What, then, were the Firstborn themselves but mere instruments?
Within him, the fire of revolt flared.
And what was merely doubt became heresy.
What was merely indignation became a desire for usurpation.
But it was not yet time for war.
There was still a garden to be planted.
And a story to be written in blood, tears, and glory.
The Murmur of the Shadow
There were no thunders.
There were no signs in the firmament.
The poison entered the Heavens like a whisper: slow, invisible, lethal.
Among the Eranthi and the Archangels, unrest spread.
How could they accept that the Most High had shaped, in secret, such a weak being — and yet looked upon it with a tenderness He had never bestowed even on the oldest among them?
Samael, the most resplendent of the Firstborn, walked among his brothers as one who carries a secret in his eyes.
— "Why?" — he murmured, alone in the towers of light. — "Why does that one made of dust receive what we have never touched?"
Doubt fermented in his chest like forbidden wine.
The First Schism
Other angels also heard.
Others also looked at the animated dust and felt a shiver of jealousy.
It was not just Samael.
Gabri'el, the herald of eternal melodies, hesitated in his songs.
Uri'el, guardian of the flames, lowered his gaze in the face of doubt.
Even Sariel, the observer, allowed his eyes to stray from purity.
Few remained unscathed.
Among them, Mikael — the Loyal Warrior — stood firm, like an immovable mountain, even without fully understanding the design of the Most High.
The Sower
But Samael did not seek comfort.
Instead, he sought allies.
His steps became more furtive, his words sweeter.
— "Does it not seem strange to you?" — he said amidst the corridors of the Ether. — "So many eons of service... and in the end, we are eclipsed by a breath of dust?"
Some listened and closed their eyes, disturbed.
Others, secretly, began to believe.
And thus, without declared war, without drawn steel, the first schism was born in the bowels of Paradise.
The Bitter Seed
Within Samael, a certainty began to grow:
If God's love could be given so freely, then perhaps the throne could also be taken.
Not by insane rebellion, but by justice.
By the right of those who were strong.
By the true heirs of Creation.
So he thought.
Thus grew the root of what would one day be the ruin of the Heavens.
The Most High Sees
And the Most High, who sees all, contemplated in silence.
Not because He could not prevent it.
But because the freedom He had given to creation was unbreakable — even for Him.
For without freedom, love would be but disguised slavery.
The Request
One day, gathered under the Eternal Throne, the Firstborn heard something they never expected.
The Voice of the Most High descended upon them like a river of fire and tenderness:
— "My children, to whom I have entrusted the heavens and glory, I now ask of you: love the work that was born of me. Love man, made of dust, as you love me — or even more."
Silence fell over the Ether.
The angels, perplexed, bowed in adoration. Some, with tears of joy, accepted without hesitation.
But among them, one heart trembled.
Samael, the bearer of light, the first and most beautiful of the sons, felt an impossible weight upon his wings.
He lowered his head.
God, knowing the struggle that was born within him, called him aside.
— "My son, why is your face saddened?"
Samael replied with painful sincerity:
— "Father... I cannot. I love You with all the being You created in me... but to love that creature, made of dust and error, more than You... is impossible for me."
The silence that followed was heavier than time.
But the Most High did not punish him.
He did not reprove him.
He merely rested His hand upon the head of the firstborn and said:
— "Then stay. You are still mine."
And Samael remained among the saints, but in his chest, incomplete love fermented like a hidden wound.
The Wound
He was not banished.
He was not cursed.
But within him, something changed forever.
The seed of bitterness — planted by the weight of a love he could not give — began to grow in silence.
He saw the human walk in the garden, heard their imperfect songs, saw their ignorance... and wondered:
How can the Most High prefer them to us?
The Fall Did Not Happen in a Day
Samael did not fall because he disobeyed a clear order.
He fell because, slowly, he refused to accept what wounded his pride.
Each passing day, he loved less.
Each passing day, he understood less.
And when the Woman was created — the most delicate, most beautiful, freest work — the rest of his resistance broke.