The Codex is older than light.
It is older than the song of the stars, older than the first breath of wind that wandered through the empty dark.
Its cover is not bound in leather, nor in stone, but in the memory of the void itself — a memory only the Galaxy can open.
And now, it opens.
I am the voice that carries it.
Not the scribe. Not the keeper.
I am only the one who remembers.
Listen and Witness, Reader.
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Before the before, there was no sky, for there was no above.
There was no ground, for there was no below.
There was no time to measure, no distance to cross, no sound to carry.
There was only It.
We call It Chaos.
But that is a word for your tongue, not for Its truth.
Your language cannot bear the weight of Its name.
It is the Gifter of Life, though Life was not yet a thought.
It is the Wellspring, though no water had yet fallen.
It is the Flame, though no fire had yet burned.
It did not move, for movement had not been given.
It did not rest, for rest is the twin of toil, and toil had not been born.
Yet from It, all things would be given shape.
For reasons that will never be written — reasons even the Codex does not speak — Chaos stirred.
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From that stirring came the first pulse.
It was not sound, though it could be heard.
It was not light, though it could be seen.
It was the pulse that made is from is not.
From the pulse rose the Higher Beings.
Seven in number, or perhaps seventy.
The Codex names them, but their names will not pass my lips, for to speak them is to call their attention, and none should wish for that.
They did not look like you.
They did not look like each other.
Each was the embodiment of a law not yet written: gravity, heat, breath, decay, hunger, growth, silence.
They were the first children of Chaos.
And though It gifted them being, It gifted them nothing else — no guidance, no command.
They were as newborn flames, each finding its way through the dark.
For an age without measure, the Higher Beings drifted in the endless stillness, shaping what they touched without intent.
From their wandering hands came the first clouds of dust, the first sparks, the first currents of unseen air.
These gathered into spheres and orbs, seas of stone and seas of light.
But still there was no world.
Only the pieces from which worlds could be made.
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It was then the Higher Beings did something Chaos had never done:
They spoke to one another.
No mortal ear could hear their voices.
Their speech was the bending of laws, the twisting of forces, the joining of elements that had never before touched.
And in that speech, they made an agreement.
It was to bring something from nothing.
They willed it, so thus, it was.
From among their works, they would create servants — not to worship them, for such a thought did not yet exist, but to continue the shaping.
The servants would not be as vast as they, for nothing could be.
But they would be mighty in their own right, each bound to a domain, each capable of walking upon what the Higher Beings could only form from afar.
And so, the Main Gods were born.
The Codex says there were twelve.
It also says there were countless.
Both are true.
For to the gods themselves, they are as stars — unending in number — yet to mortals, they are as seasons — finite, recurring, always returning.
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The gods took form not as the Higher Beings did, but as they themselves willed.
Some shone like suns, their bodies made of pure radiance.
Some towered like mountains, their veins filled with molten gold.
Some hid their faces in shadow, walking only where light would never touch.
The Higher Beings gave them no orders.
Instead, the gods were given the World.
It was young then — a sphere of rock and water, cloaked in the breath of storms.
Its lands were bare save for the sleeping roots of forests yet unborn, its seas empty save for the glimmer of life waiting to awaken.
The gods looked upon it and were pleased.
Not because it was perfect, but because it was theirs.
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They divided it.
The god whose hands were rivers claimed the waters.
The god whose breath was ash claimed the mountains.
The god whose eyes were storms claimed the skies.
The god whose heart was a black flame claimed the depths beneath the crust.
The god whose step left forests claimed the plains.
The god whose voice was the howl of beasts claimed the wild places.
And so it went, until each domain was marked, and no part of the world was without a keeper.
Yet even in their unity, there was distance.
The gods did not rule together.
They walked alone, each tending their realm, each shaping it to their own vision.
For they had no need of alliance then.
No mortal yet breathed to unite or divide them.
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For a thousand thousand years — or perhaps only a day, for time was still a newborn thing — the gods walked the empty world.
The god of rivers carved veins through the land, filling them with silver waters.
The god of forests coaxed roots from stone, teaching green things to drink the light.
The god of mountains raised the land into jagged peaks, giving the world its bones.
The god of storms taught the sky to move, sending clouds across the dome of the heavens.
And where the gods' domains touched, wonders were born.
Water met earth, and marshes sang with reeds.
Stone met wind, and canyons whispered with voices not their own.
Fire met sea, and islands rose steaming from the waves.
The gods looked upon these works and saw that the world was alive.
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Yet in the silence between their footsteps, the presence of Chaos lingered.
It did not interfere.
It did not speak.
But the gods felt it — a vastness without face, older than their making, watching without judgment.
Some among them believed Chaos had turned away, never to return.
Others believed Chaos would one day reclaim what it had given.
But all agreed on one truth: Chaos had birthed them, and so it could unmake them.
And in that knowledge, a seed of caution — and perhaps of fear — took root.
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The Codex turns here, its pages shifting like the passing of continents.
The next verses speak of the first shadows in the age before mortal breath.
How the gods began to stray into each other's realms, shaping not only for the sake of shaping, but to outdo one another.
How the world grew more beautiful — and more dangerous — as their rivalries deepened.
But that is not yet the story for your ears.
For now, remember this:
Before your kind walked under the sun, before your tongues could name the rivers or the winds, before death or birth or even the dream of them, the gods had already walked this world.
And above them, unseen and unchanging, Chaos remained.
The Gifter of Life.
The first and last truth of all things.
The name your language cannot hold.
The Codex closes.
The Galaxy forgets you again.
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Page 1 of the Ancient Codex.
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