Ages passed, and the stars stopped singing his name.
The throne in the Crimson Sanctum remained untouched. Dominus, the sleeping god who had seeded existence itself, lay still. He had never spoken, never risen. But his dream had spun the stars, called forth the gods, and sculpted the pattern of the worlds.
And over time, the gods forgot.
Not their power. Not their purpose. Just the reason.
They created realms, forged empires, took lovers, waged wars—but the memory of why they were born faded into myth. His name, once a quiet drumbeat in their immortal veins, grew silent beneath pride and peace.
Yet not all forgot.
Three gods still remembered the presence they had never seen.
Freya, goddess of beauty, war, and longing, stood alone atop a silver tower overlooking the forming mortal realm. Her eyes shimmered like twin galaxies. To the others, she was untouchable, enigmatic, irresistible. But inside her chest burned a single truth: he was real.
Every night, she dreamed of him. A god asleep beyond sight. A warmth she had never touched but could never let go of. She whispered his name in silence—Dominus. She did not need proof. Her soul was branded by love.
Hephaestus, goddess of flame and forge, had not forgotten either. While others praised her as the Divine Smith, crafting wonders and shaping weapons, she carried a truth in secret. Her right eye—strange, glowing, inhuman—burned with something no forge could explain. She had tried to hide it. She had once called it a curse.
But in the stillness of creation, she heard a whisper in metal. A memory in flame. And deep inside, she knew… it was him.
And far above them, on the highest celestial throne, sat Ouranos—the only god who had ever stood in Dominus's presence. Not as an equal. As a servant and a witness.
He alone had seen the dreamer dream.
And he never forgot.
The mortal plane had begun to form.
Land spread across the vastness like veins. Rivers threaded through the dust. The Dungeon yawned beneath the Tower of Babel like a divine heartbeat, ready to test all who dared descend.
No mortals walked its soil yet. But the world waited.
Freya and Hephaestus ascended the stairs of the Celestial Hall, leaving behind the temples and revelry of the gods who no longer questioned their purpose. They rose in silence until they reached the platform where Ouranos stood, cloaked in silver and shadow, staring out over Gekai.
Freya broke the stillness first.
"Do you feel it?" she asked. "The weight?"
Ouranos didn't turn. "I never stopped feeling it."
Hephaestus stepped beside her, hands still dusted with the glow of cooled flame. "They don't talk about him anymore," she said quietly. "The others. They laugh when I mention the throne in the Sanctum."
"They've forgotten," Freya said, almost mournful. "But they're still loyal. They just don't remember why."
"Loyalty woven so deep it survives amnesia," Ouranos muttered. "Even in their ignorance, they kneel. Even in their arrogance, they build his world."
The three stood there for a long moment, watching the newborn world turn beneath them. The sky was still pink, the light unclaimed.
Then Hephaestus looked to him.
"You saw him. You're the only one who ever has. What was he like?"
Ouranos was quiet.
"When I was first born," he began slowly, "I opened my eyes… and he was there. He did not speak. He did not move. But he was."
He turned toward Hephaestus.
"It was like standing in the gravity of eternity. A presence so vast, so final, I forgot my own name. And in that moment, he saw me."
Hephaestus's glowing eye flickered slightly. Her voice dropped. "Then... this?"
She gestured to her right eye—glowing faintly with a golden light, marked with celestial lines that no divine forge could recreate.
"I've always thought it was a flaw. A scar. Something broken inside me."
Ouranos stepped toward her, his expression gentler than it had been in centuries.
"It's not a curse, Hephaestus," he said. "It's a gift."
She blinked.
"A gift?" she echoed.
"A fragment of his mind," Ouranos explained. "You were touched by him in ways no other was. That eye burns because it remembers. It sees pieces of his dream before the rest of us. That fire in you? It's not just your forge. It's his vision."
He paused, letting the words settle into her soul.
"When he wakes, that eye will see him first. Because it always has."
Hephaestus stared into the reflection of her hand's molten scar. For the first time, she didn't feel shame. She felt… chosen.
"I never stopped waiting," Freya whispered, her eyes on the sky. "I don't know what I'll say when he awakens. But I'll kneel the moment he looks at me."
"You won't be the only one," Ouranos said. "Every god will kneel. Every soul will remember. Because they were all born for him. Even if they've forgotten his name…"
He lifted his gaze toward the silent stars.
"…their souls remember the sound of his silence."