In the beginning, there was the Void, infinite and unmeasured. There was no time, no space, and no form—only an abyss of endless silence. Darkness covered all, and nothing yet had shape or meaning. The heavens were not, nor the stars, nor the winds, nor the breath of life.

And from the depths of the eternal Nothingness, there arose the First Will, the nameless and formless thought that yearned to be. It was neither light nor dark, neither bound nor free, yet it stirred, and its stirring was the first motion in the abyss.

The First Will spoke, though there were no tongues, and its voice was without sound, yet it echoed through the emptiness. And in that utterance, the first division was made: Order from Chaos, Light from Darkness, Being from Non-being. Thus, the Cosmos was conceived in the womb of the Void.

And the First Will, now aware, became the One, the Prime Mover, the Unshaped Architect of all that was to come. It reached into the endless abyss and wove the first threads of existence.

The Architect cast forth the Breath of Creation, and from it was born the Primordial Flame, bright and fierce, illuminating the formless dark. The Flame roared, and from its light, the first essence of reality was forged.

But with the Flame came its opposite, for all things must be balanced. From the Void that recoiled against the Flame, there arose the Abyss, cold and still, swallowing all that the fire had sought to bring forth. Thus was the second great division made: the struggle of Creation and Unmaking.

The Architect, seeing the war between the Flame and the Abyss, reached forth again and shaped the Law that would bind them. And in binding them, the Architect forged the first threads of Time, so that the war would not be eternal, but a cycle of birth and decay.

From the union of the Flame and the Abyss, the great Cosmic Tapestry was spun. The first stars were kindled, their flames stolen from the Primordial Fire, their deaths feeding the endless hunger of the Abyss. And between them, the first spaces stretched, forming the great expanse of the heavens.

The Architect then shaped the Pillars of Reality—laws to govern the forces of existence. These were Time, Space, Matter, and Thought. Time to measure change, Space to give form, Matter to create substance, and Thought to bring forth understanding.

Thus, the Cosmos was set in motion, not as a single creation, but as a vast and ever-expanding expanse, an eternal interplay between Light and Darkness, Order and Chaos, Being and Unbeing. And though the Architect had shaped its foundations, it did not rule, for creation was now set free to unfold as it would.

And so the Architect withdrew, vanishing into the vastness of its own making, neither dead nor living, neither present nor absent. It left behind only the whisper of its Will, lingering in the fabric of existence, waiting to be heard by those who seek the origins of all things.

Thus was the Cosmos born, and thus it shall remain, ever turning, ever growing, until the final breath of the last star fades into the Abyss.

In the vastness of the newborn cosmos, where the first stars flickered and the great expanse stretched unmeasured, there was yet no world, no place where life could take root. The Architect had set the laws in motion, but the heavens remained cold, distant, and silent.

And in the endless night, among the many stars that burned and died, there was one unlike any other. It was not kindled by mere fire, nor was it shaped by the warring forces of the Abyss and the Flame. It was formed by the Will of the Cosmos itself—a star of purpose, not chance.

This star was called Aeternis, the First Light of Life, the heart of creation. It burned not merely with heat, but with a fire that carried the essence of vitality. Its radiance did not merely illuminate the void, but stirred it, awakening that which lay dormant in the fabric of existence.

When Aeternis was born, its brilliance spread across the heavens, and where its light touched, the cold darkness was softened. The remnants of the First Flame that drifted across the void gathered around its core, drawn by its call. And from this union, the first sparks of life began to stir, though they were yet formless and unseen.

The Architect, seeing the birth of Aeternis, wove a great law into the fabric of existence: that where its light shone, there would be the possibility of life. And so, the First Star was not merely a beacon in the void—it was a seed, a force that would one day give rise to worlds and the beings who would walk upon them.

But the Abyss, the endless hunger that devoured all things, stirred in protest. For in Aeternis, it saw defiance—an existence that would not yield to the void. And so the Abyss sent forth its shadows to smother the First Star, to reclaim it into nothingness.

Yet Aeternis did not wane. The flame that burned within it was not one of mere matter, but of Will, and no shadow could consume it. Instead, the darkness that sought to swallow it was drawn into its heart, transmuted into light. And so, for the first time, the Abyss recoiled, knowing that it could not unmake all things.

From the remnants of this battle, the first dust of creation was scattered across the void. These fragments, infused with the radiance of Aeternis, drifted through the heavens, and where they settled, the foundations of the first worlds began to take shape.

And thus, Aeternis became the Eternal Beacon, the light that would guide the birth of life. It was the first, but not the last, for from its fire, new stars would rise, each carrying a portion of its essence, spreading the potential for life across the cosmos.

And though the Architect remained unseen, it was said that Aeternis was the first great work of creation that bore the mark of its Will, a sign that the cosmos was not merely vast and empty, but a canvas upon which life would one day be painted.

Thus, the First Star was born, and with it, the promise of existence beyond mere light and darkness.

The First Star, Aeternis, burned in the vastness of the heavens, its radiance spreading across the cosmos. But though its light carried the essence of life, there was yet no land, no sky, no waters to cradle the breath of existence. And so, the Architect willed the shaping of the Cosmos, and it was done in seven great movements, each a day in the measure of eternity.

On the first day, the Architect stretched forth its hand, and the vast void between the stars trembled. From the scattered remnants of the First Flame, it gathered the dust of creation, weaving it into the first great forms. The heavens were divided, and from that division, the Firmament was set in place—a great expanse where the stars would take their stations, where the celestial currents would flow.

The Architect bound the Firmament with the first laws of order, so that the heavens would not collapse into the Abyss, nor the stars be swallowed by the Void. Thus, the sky of the cosmos was formed, and within it, the stars found their orbits, their paths fixed by the Architect's decree.

On the second day, though Aeternis burned with the radiance of life, its light was scattered, unfocused, warring against the encroaching dark. And so, the Architect called forth the Second Flame, a lesser but steadier light, that would serve as a beacon to guide the birth of worlds.

The light was gathered, and from it, the Suns were forged—great fires that would stand against the Abyss, each carrying a portion of Aeternis's essence. And to balance them, the Architect willed the forming of Moons, celestial bodies that would reflect the light, tempering it so that all things might not be consumed in brilliance alone.

And the Architect spoke, and it was decreed that time should have meaning, that the rising and setting of light would mark the turning of the heavens. Thus, the cycle of Day and Night was made, and the first measure of time was set.

On the third day, the heavens were shaped, the light divided, but the Firmament remained barren. And so, the Architect stirred the dust of creation, and from it, the Cosmic Waters were drawn forth.

These were not waters as they would one day be known, but the first great seas of matter, from which all things physical would be born. Swirling in the void, they carried the seeds of the worlds to come, waiting for the command that would give them shape.

The Architect set boundaries to these waters, so they would not dissolve into the Abyss, and from them, the first currents of existence began to flow, shaping the heavens with unseen rivers of power.

On the fourth day, the Cosmic Waters churned, and from their depths, the first great worlds arose. Some were vast and radiant, burning with the fire of the First Flame. Others were cold and barren, veiled in shadow, waiting for their time.

The Architect reached forth and blessed the first world that would be the cradle of life, a land formed by the merging of light and shadow, of fire and ice. It was set upon the firmament, bound by the great laws of creation, so that it would not drift into the abyss nor be consumed by the stars.

And so, the first landmass was shaped, though it was yet empty, waiting for its purpose.

On the fifth day, the heavens had form, the worlds were born, but all was still and silent. And so, the Architect breathed upon creation, and from its breath, the Winds of Existence arose.

These were the first unseen forces, the currents that would stir the lifeless world, setting the tides into motion, carrying the whispers of creation across the stars. Some winds were gentle, bringing warmth and the promise of life. Others were fierce, shaping the lands with storm and fury.

And thus, movement came to the stillborn world, and the first echoes of sound resonated through the Firmament.

On the sixth day, though the world now stirred, it was yet incomplete, for the forces of the cosmos still clashed, unbound and untamed. And so, the Architect wove the last of the great laws—the Balance that would govern all things.

It was decreed that no force should exist without its opposite, that the fire should not burn without air, that the waters should not flow without land to guide them, that darkness should not stretch endless without the promise of dawn.

And with this decree, harmony was set into the foundation of existence. The first storms calmed, the first rivers found their course, the stars held their positions, and the abyss was kept at bay.

On the seventh day, the heavens had been shaped, the world had been set, the balance had been decreed. And on the Seventh Day, the Architect did not create, but instead beheld all that had been woven into existence.

The Architect withdrew into the vastness of the Cosmos, leaving behind only the imprint of its Will, woven into the laws of the universe. For though it had set all things into motion, it would not interfere—it would allow existence to unfold as it willed.

And so, the first world stood upon the Firmament, bathed in the light of the First Star, waiting for the moment when the Breath of Life would be kindled.

Thus ended the Seven Days, and the cosmos stood ready for the dawn of creation.