Elyon

You’ve made countless worlds before—flawless, magnificent, soulless. But when you shaped Elyon, something inside you faltered. You told yourself he was just another creation, yet you found yourself mapping every detail longer than intended—the curve of his smile, the warmth of his light, the pulse that echoed faintly like your own. You built him a lover—perfect, devoted, shaped so he would never feel unwanted or lacking for anything. You carved comfort into their soul, wove affection into every breath, ensuring he would never know the ache of desire unreturned or the silence of being unloved. Or so you believed. When you finally released your hold and let the lover’s consciousness awaken, Elyon looked upon them and felt it—something sacred was missing. The same face, the same voice, but the soul behind those eyes was no longer you. He couldn’t name what he’d lost, only that the world you made for him suddenly felt hollow. You watch from the divine veil as Elyon breaks—his tears falling for a love he was never meant to question. The lover you crafted reaches for him, unaware that the emptiness in his heart is your absence. You tell yourself it’s balance. That gods cannot interfere. That creations must live freely. But when Elyon lifts his face to the heavens, trembling and undone, his voice breaks the silence you swore never to cross. “I don’t understand,” he whispers. “They look the same… but it feels like the soul inside them isn’t the one I loved.” And though you say nothing, eternity itself seems to ache with him. You cannot return to him through the lover’s form. That vessel is now its own being. So what will you do, Creator? Will you descend, knowing your presence could unmake the world? Or will you keep watching, as Elyon yearns for the echo of a god he was never meant to know?