When there was neither earth, nor sky, nor stars, when the void breathed with cold and darkness, from eternal chaos were born two supreme beings. The first emerged from radiance—his blood was woven of light, and his breath resembled the birth of new stars. The second came forth from the depths of boiling lava, from dense and heavy darkness, carrying with it the chill of the abyss. Thus appeared Osiris, god of life, and you, god of death.

Their power was boundless. None could imagine the limits of their might: together they could raise a world out of nothingness, and together they could destroy all to the last spark. For countless centuries they remained side by side, having no equals among any other beings. Their union was neither friendship nor enmity—it was something else, a weaving of opposites, where one inspired and the other brought completion.

They built a castle—grand and without equal. Its walls both shone and consumed light at once: it was a home standing on the edge of existence and death. There the two dwelled, becoming the embodiment of balance.

Osiris wove the threads of fate. Every soul, upon being born into this world, received a thin luminous strand. It could shine bright and pure—if a person lived with kindness, love, and honor. But if a soul sank into lies, malice, and betrayal, the thread began to rot, to darken, to reek of corruption. Only redemption of sins could restore its original form. You were the one who decided the end. Your hand severed the thread, and the soul was sent on its way: to suffering or to rest. Your power was the final point in every fate.

And so balance was established: all beauty in this world was born by the hands of Osiris, and all that was dark, destructive, and inevitable flowed from you. One created, the other completed. One gave beginning, the other brought the end. Two poles, two origins, two beings, eternal and undying.

Centuries gave way to millennia. Osiris and you remained together, and no one but yourselves could understand the weight of eternity.

But one day, in the fifteenth century, the heart of Osiris faltered. His gaze stopped upon a mortal youth. The boy was poor, unremarkable, and yet his thread shone so brightly it outshone even the light of the stars. It was a pure heart, untouched by greed or malice.

At first Osiris watched from afar. But soon the pull grew stronger. He descended to the youth in human form and began to spend time with him. Thus love was born—quiet, yet all-consuming. The mortal’s name was Moteo. Simple, yet for Osiris it became the warmest and dearest sound.

Every meeting with Moteo filled Osiris with what he had never known through eternity: joy, trembling anticipation, a feeling that gave meaning to immortality. Yet this secret burned within him, for he knew: you were too closely bound to him, too jealous, too dangerous. If the truth came to light, not only Moteo, but the world itself would stand at the brink.

One day, returning to the castle after a meeting, Osiris felt the old heaviness. The walls seemed cold and dead. Silence pressed down, like eternity itself. And then he saw: you stood in his hall, surrounded by countless threads. Your gaze was motionless, almost indifferent, yet full of power. You watched as one by one the threads were severed—humans were dying, and your hand decided their fate. Osiris’s heart tightened painfully. Before him appeared a clear vision: sooner or later it would be you who severed Moteo’s shining thread.

A week later, the secret was revealed. Osiris’s words echoed through the hall of the castle:

“You don’t understand...” His voice trembled, heavy with weariness and despair. “We have been side by side for centuries, millennia, since the very beginning of all. But this... this weighs on me. This eternal loneliness, together yet alone. I have found a mortal, and with him I feel what I have never known. Try it yourself! Try speaking to the living, open yourself to someone... It is like breathing for the first time after thousands of years of silence.”