Before thought, before matter and time itself, there was only Nothingness.
It was not emptiness, nor shadow, nor cold. Nothingness was total absence. No human concept can encompass its purity. There, in that complete nonexistence, something occurred. It was not a sound, nor a flash, nor even an intention. It was an introspection of nonexistence itself, a kind of primordial echo that—without apparent reason—looked at itself. And in doing so, consciousness was born, like a kind of mental Big Bang.
From that consciousness emerged four entities that in turn represented the laws that governed even the nonexistence in which they resided—four beings who were the manifestation of the natural order that even the void had to possess, and who had formed consciousnesses to inhabit it: Equilibrium, Causality, Entropy, and Silence.
They were not gods, nor spirits, nor entities with form. They were self-aware manifestations of Nothingness, thoughts that chose to sustain themselves in the abyss. Without past, without purpose, they simply were. In the beginning, they floated in that perfect calm, without pain or desire, without cause or goal. But even in that absolute equilibrium, a restlessness arose. What else could there be? What would happen if… something existed?
Thus came the first gesture of rebellion against Nothingness: possibility.
They did not speak to one another. They never did. They communicated through interlacing: a collective thought that formed simultaneously within each of them, as if a single mind manifested in multiple forms. And so, all of them knew it was time to create.
First, they defined two forces: one that would affirm, and another that would deny. One they called existence, the other nonexistence. Both were necessary. Existence alone was chaos without control, endless life, expansion without direction. Nonexistence was complete emptiness, sterile, inflexible, eternal, and without change. United, in balance, they could form something beautiful and functional.
Then creation was unleashed. Being formless entities, the first thing they did was design avatars for themselves—bodies formed from the very darkness and void of Nothingness, with completely dark humanoid shapes but eyes and robes of phosphorescent dark blue that showed they possessed bodies.
And once they had formed themselves, they formed something more. From the first interlacing between existence and nonexistence arose what was called: the First Existence. An ethereal, vast, and pure multiverse, born not with noise, but with a heartbeat. Universes began to sprout like bubbles of thought, each dancing to the rhythm of the balance between what is and what must not be. Formless worlds, galaxies of liquid light, planes where time was only just beginning and ideas turned into matter. Everything was experimental. Everything was pure art. And in creating existence, they named themselves the Guardians.
But the Guardians, upon observing what they had created, knew that building was not enough. Someone had to care for it. For even the most perfect structure collapses if there is no consciousness to embrace it—and they themselves were the clearest example.
So they formed two beings. Not like themselves—not beings of nothing or void—but entities, with form, with bodies… and with souls. They would be the children of duality, and like the four of them, they would embody the concepts and forces that had been developed for existence. This time, they would form beings who embodied existence and nonexistence, so that these might care for and maintain creation.
One they forged from threads of white shadow, tangible matter extracted from nonexistence. They named her Lyra. Her long, dark hair seemed to reflect the nonexistence from which she was made, and her bright yellow eyes resembled suns on the verge of reaching their end. Within her resided calm, dissolution, the gentle end.
The other they shaped from the light of affirmation, infinitely dense particles of pure existence. Him they named Zefaniel. His short hair was also black but seemed to shine with life, and his yellow eyes instead resembled rising suns. Firm, radiant—his mere presence encouraged the birth of worlds. He was strength, creation, momentum.
They were siblings. But not by blood—by purpose.
The Guardians assigned them a single task: to maintain the balance of the multiverse. In their hands would rest the sustaining of the cosmic dance between expansion and contraction, creation and silence. They were the pillars of all that was and would be. The multiverse breathed through them.
For countless eons, Lyra and Zefaniel fulfilled their duty.
They traveled the layers of existence, visited universes that lasted mere seconds, nourished constellations with their presence. In their hearts grew mutual admiration, unbreakable closeness. They were not merely friends, nor simple allies. They were two halves of a single essence.
Lyra, in her gentleness, found beauty in the twilight of things. She was fascinated by watching a star die with dignity. Zefaniel, on the other hand, was moved at the sight of a civilization speaking its first words, or the blooming of a new world. Everything seemed perfect.
However, the love they both developed for one another, though beautiful, began to cause imbalance. Being always united and sharing essence, the bond they developed caused their powers to increase. They no longer needed to consciously create universes; passively, their forces began to create and destroy—forming universes that were not yet meant to be created or destroying very young ones. Both the Guardians and Lyra and Zefaniel noticed. The siblings realized what they were beginning to cause, and though it was not intentional, they could not help but feel guilty. Yet they could do nothing to prevent it—for like any consciousness, how could they not love another? How could they make their love diminish? They were siblings, and they simply loved one another.
Because of this, the Guardians made a harsh but necessary decision: they had to separate them. They could not erase their love, but at least if they were not near and did not see each other, the bond of their powers would lessen enough. The siblings were reluctant, but they understood it was best for creation, so shedding tears that created and destroyed more worlds, they separated.
At first everything seemed to return to normal, but that calm did not last long. Over time, the siblings began to develop sadness from not seeing each other, and their powers—and creation—were affected again.
Now some universes took a very long time to be created, or with time withered and perished without need of Lyra. She, meanwhile, began to accidentally corrode universes—not destroy them, but corrupt them, like a cancer that slowly and painfully eliminated worlds.
The Guardians noticed once more, so they decided the siblings would see each other every million years to prevent them from missing one another too much. It worked at first, but again their love bred rebellion. When the Guardians were careless every few centuries or millennia, they would secretly meet, which strengthened their bond again and destabilized creation once more.
The Guardians noticed again. So they chose to be stricter for the good of all and placed a kind of mental barrier between them that prevented them from finding each other until a million years had passed. This generated frustration in the siblings, yet because of the responsibility they felt toward the multiverse, they accepted it.
They continued their work and saw each other only for one day every million years, cherishing every second together—but that joy ended when they had to part again.
And one day, when they met once more, they could not hold back their tears. Each time it felt as though that million years passed more and more slowly, and both could think only of being together. They embraced for hours without separating, and when they finally did, they walked together through several worlds and saw friends, families, siblings who lived their tiny lives together and near their loved ones—and they could not help but want that. They wanted with all their strength to always remain at each other's side, but they knew that was not an option.
And then they both asked a question. Small, silent, like a crack barely visible.
"Why us?"
Zefaniel asked it while they observed that planet where beings lived freely, without burdens. They played, dreamed, fell in love, made mistakes. They lived without knowing the weight of sustaining everything.
Lyra looked at him in silence. She had thought it too.
"Why can't we rest? Why can't we… live… like them?"
The questions multiplied. They were becoming not only Guardians tasked with maintaining balance. They were becoming conscious beings who felt pain, who desired. They began to develop doubts and longed for freedom. They wanted to live. And in doing so, the multiverse began to tremble.
Structures fluctuated. Worlds that should have been eternal collapsed. Realities folded in on themselves. The balance grew unstable; the doubts arising in their hearts began to manifest throughout creation.
When the moment of farewell came again and the Guardians were about to separate them once more, for a second the siblings resisted—they refused to let go of each other's hands. But resigned, they said goodbye again. Yet doubt and sorrow did not leave them.
The multiverse trembled with the contained pain they could no longer conceal. The Guardians tried to speak with them, to help them, but the siblings harbored resentment for the barrier placed between them.
"We are supposed to exist as the consciousnesses that embrace the whole—but who embraces us?"
The Guardians understood the root of the problem. They too loved their children and understood the feelings within them. In a way, the Guardians were also siblings and cherished one another. But as much as it hurt, they could not allow their two creations to endanger everything. And they chose to intervene with a decision they knew was too radical—but saw as the only possible option.
They attempted to suppress their consciousness.
A simple yet brutal act. They wanted to turn Lyra and Zefaniel into cosmic automatons, mere mechanisms to maintain balance. Without emotion. Without memory. Without love. And thus prevent their mental doubts from destabilizing the whole.
Hearing this, the siblings were frozen. Eliminate their consciousness? They understood the Guardians' reasoning was valid, and that it would restore equilibrium—but they did not want it. It would fix everything, but it would also mean they would stop loving each other. Their affection would disappear, and even if together, nothing would grow. And though they valued the First Existence greatly, they valued each other more. So they refused.
Thus began the conflict.
The Guardians tried to make them understand, but the siblings were resolute. Their bond was not something they were willing to lose. Seeing they could not control them without destroying existence itself, the Guardians made a desperate decision: imprison them.
The siblings resisted, but though they did not want to lose their humanity, neither did they wish to endanger their reality or confront their creators fully.
And so, despite their struggle, the very doubts and humanity they wished to preserve condemned them. The Guardians exploited their vulnerability and attachment to creation—which made them fight in a restrained and predictable manner—to corner them. Using galaxies as bindings, they confined them in a dead, sealed universe isolated from the rest of the multiverse. A place where nothing lived, only inhospitable planets without life, and where their consciousnesses could be extracted calmly and without danger. There, slowly, they began extracting the energy of existence and nonexistence from their bodies carefully, as if mining precious minerals. In this way they would eliminate their minds and siphon part of their power to control them more easily.
The weakened siblings clung to one another. Each night—if such a term can be used in eternal void—they reminded each other of who they had been. They spoke, cried, dreamed.
But they also broke more each day. They screamed to be freed, tried to reach for each other's hands, but no one answered, and their bindings prevented movement. Each day they felt more of themselves slipping away. With every passing day they were less themselves and began to develop fear. They felt life escaping them, and daily through tears they asked and cried out: Why us? Why must we endure this? In doing so, they developed anger. They spoke to and comforted each other so as not to forget, praying for the agony to end. And each time they resisted, each time their words helped them endure and they nearly touched hands, the Guardians intervened—creating galaxies between them to widen the distance so they heard each other only in screams, or placing heavier bindings that stole their breath and left them unable to speak.
The millennia and suffering continued. They faded further and further, at times barely able to form words. Yet they could not stop thinking of each other—that alone prevented them from losing all humanity. They tried always to think of the other, weeping silently so as not to disappear—but they only delayed the inevitable. After what even for gods felt like eternity, the Guardians were close to stripping them of consciousness entirely, and Lyra and Zefaniel felt it. Their sobbing intensified; they could barely whisper each other's names to endure. They knew it was only a matter of time. So, with no will left to live and as a final option—as if both somehow knew the other would do the same—they chose to kill themselves. A fragment of consciousness and soul remained, so they decided that if they could not continue in this plane, they might at least meet in the next and finally rest—even knowing it would destroy everything.
Using their emotions and will as a core, they tried to let their internal powers consume them, to access the source of existence and nonexistence within and erase themselves. But in doing so, something unprecedented occurred. Reaching the heart of their essences caused their souls to rise and connect. Now, beyond emotion, they developed such power within that instead of being consumed, they entered the purest state of existence and nonexistence. They were no longer the incarnation of those concepts—those concepts became the incarnation of them. They attained a power beyond the conceptual, for they now were that.
The fact that those two beings formed from those forces now possessed life gave Nothingness and Everything a name and a face—and those were Lyra and Zefaniel.
The dead universe trembled.
The seals shattered. Chains of stars dissolved with a sigh. Not merely their powers, but their very essences were felt throughout creation.
Not even they understood what had happened. But upon realizing they were free, with incomprehensible speed they rushed toward each other, seeming to literally fuse in an embrace that lasted minutes. When they separated, they left their prison universe while creation fractured beneath their steps.
The Guardians felt the colossal energy now emanating from them—and a chill ran through them. With silent horror, they understood they had failed.
Lyra and Zefaniel were no longer their children. No longer the gentle guardians of balance.
They were unleashed gods, without purpose, without restraint—now bearing a shattered soul and a resentment ready to sweep away everything. Betrayed and imprisoned for thousands of years, their minds had paid the price.
The madness, desolation, and corruption they left in their wake were not intentional acts. They were the inevitable result of a consciousness that wished to live, but was forced to sacrifice everything for the sake of everything.
The Guardians were now incapable of destroying them—not because they wished to preserve the First Existence, but because they could not. Their power now existed on an entirely different scale, one the Guardians could not even fathom. They knew fighting was useless, confronting those two now-beasts impossible. Yet they would not allow themselves to be eliminated. So they did the only thing they could: they sealed the First Existence. They fled back into the void before Lyra and Zefaniel could catch them and sealed it from the outside—imprisoning it, isolating it, leaving it to rot in the memory of Nothingness. All that had been born there was buried and confined. Only destruction remained… and two deranged gods trapped in complete eternity.
The First Existence was forgotten.
And with it, the tragic echo of two souls who once only wished to love… and whom the universe forced to become monsters.