In the beginning, there were two.
Not stars, nor gods, nor the weight of time—only the twins.
Born from the silence between heartbeats, from the breath between void and form, they emerged. Twin essences—perfect in symmetry, yet destined for division. One shimmered with brilliance, his being aglow with purpose. The other pulsed with curiosity, his essence undefined, like a question whispered into the dark.
And then the First Act.
The elder raised his hands, and light bled from his fingertips, pure and commanding. Stars screamed into existence, galaxies spun from his breath. He shaped realms from will alone—heavenly domes wrapped in eternity, and beneath them, a cradle of earth kissed by starlight. In reverence, he created the angels: luminous beings that danced in his glow, voices forged to sing his name.
He called it Heaven.
The younger twin watched in awe. Moved by the beauty his brother had summoned, he longed to craft something too—not out of pride, but from wonder.
So he reached into the same void, let his essence spill across the unseen, and shaped.
But what emerged was wrong.
It twisted and trembled. Fire burst from cracks in the very air. Mountains bled rivers of molten sorrow. Skies screamed and tore themselves apart. Where his brother had woven harmony, the younger twin had birthed Hell—a realm of chaos and agony, alive with ancient creatures that should not be, and screams that never ceased.
He fell to his knees, horrified.
This wasn't what he wanted.
From the heights of Heaven, one angel—young, radiant, and unafraid—descended, wings wide, heart open. She approached the younger twin, her eyes full of empathy. She reached out, desperate to console him.
Their fingers met.
And the angel screamed.
Not in pain—no. In annihilation.
In a flash of twisted light, she was gone. Erased. Unwritten. As if she had never been.
Above them, Heaven shook.
Its golden skies flickered. Towers of light bent inward. The chorus of angels fell silent, their harmony replaced by whispers of dread. The elder twin, sensing the disturbance, descended.
He saw the scorched air where his angel once stood.
He saw the withering edges of his perfect kingdom.
And he saw him—his brother, kneeling in the fire, eyes full of regret, arms shaking.
"No," the younger twin whispered. "I didn't mean to—"
But it was too late.
"You have corrupted the sacred," the elder thundered. His voice cracked stars in half. "Your touch unwinds the light."
"I only wanted to create," the younger wept. "To be like you."
"You are not like me."
He stepped forward, hand outstretched—to punish or to save, even he did not know—but the moment the younger twin's foot touched the threshold of Heaven, the ground split open.
Light rotted.
Clouds turned to ash.
And the gates of Heaven began to decay.
Terrified, the elder seized his brother and threw him back, casting him from the sky. The gates sealed with a shuddering clang that echoed across eternity.
The younger twin fell—through the flame, through time, through realms unnamed—until he crashed into the deepest pit of Hell, alone.
There, surrounded by the screams of the forgotten, and the ahs of what could never be, he built a prison of silence around himself.
Not to keep others out.
But to keep himself in.
The First sin was not pride.
It was creation.