Where Myths Are Born

"To wound the sky, one must first find where the earth still bleeds."

There is a silence that only the oldest beings understand.

Not the stillness of rest, nor the hush before a storm.

It is the silence of breath held for an age.

The silence of Gaia.

Deep beneath the surface of Aetherion, beneath the crystal mountains, floating forests, and myth-born rivers, her roots pulsed. Not with sap or water, but with memory. Pain. Will.

Gaia no longer whispered.

She called.

And two beings answered: one of earth and rebellion, and one of soul and remembrance.

Kronos walked. Elias drifted.

They journeyed through a tunnel not carved, but grown—veins in the flesh of the world. Every step Kronos took caused the walls to stir, like the body of a living god inhaling slowly. He could not tell if the passage welcomed or warned him.

The path narrowed as they descended. The air became heavy—not with heat or dust, but with truths left unspoken. Runes pulsed faintly along the walls, not etched by tool or spell, but by Gaia's own dreaming mind.

Elias did not speak. He glided behind Kronos, his cloak silent, his form flickering between shape and shadow. Here, in this sacred root-vein, he let Kronos lead.

The sickle at Kronos's side vibrated gently.

"She waits," Elias said at last, voice soft as distant thunder. "You must go alone."

Kronos hesitated, turning.

"Will you return?"

Elias tilted his head.

"Always. Even if forgotten."

Then he vanished into the air, returning to the Hollow—though a single feather of his mantle remained, drifting down to Kronos's palm.

Kronos breathed deeply.

And walked forward, alone.

The tunnel opened suddenly, not into a chamber, but a womb.

A space larger than any city, yet small enough to hear the sound of your heartbeat echoing in the roots. Above, the ceiling was formed of layered vines woven with starlight; below, the floor was warm soil breathing with Gaia's pulse.

At the center, suspended in air, floated a stone—not rough, but smooth as skin. It throbbed with life, and from it radiated waves of memory too ancient for speech.

Kronos stepped forward.

And Gaia spoke.

But not in words.

In presence.

He fell to his knees.

Not from force.

From recognition.

Gaia had never revealed her full self—not even to her children. But here, she was no longer mountain or cave or whisper. Here, she was everything. Earth as soul. Soil as sorrow. Flesh as future.

And in that moment, Kronos saw not just his mother—but her pain.

He saw how she had bent beneath Uranus's weight, how she had hidden her children in her belly, how she had held back storms so her sons and daughters could survive.

And he saw Tartarus, buried deep within her, not as punishment—but as protection.

A rage too vast for the world above.

The stone pulsed again.

A voice—not Gaia's, but older—slid into his mind.

"This is the heart before the gods. The wound before the blade."

Kronos staggered back.

"Who—what are you?"

The voice hummed.

"We are the buried. Not dead. Not dreaming. Waiting."

The stone cracked slightly, and light spilled out—red, gold, and silver.

From the light emerged shapes.

Not Titans.

Not monsters.

Concepts.

The idea of force. Of rage. Of reversal.

The imprisoned souls of the Hecatoncheires stirred here, not screaming—but listening.

They were not alone.

Elias reformed in the Hollow, staring at the feather now missing from his mantle.

He traced the empty space with one hand, sighing.

"Let him face it."

The Tree of Echoes swayed gently, leaves dimmed.

A single soul-thread twisted in the wind.

Back in the heart, Gaia finally spoke in her own voice.

Low.

Raw.

"Kronos."

He looked up, eyes wide.

"Mother."

"This is where you must wound me."

Kronos stepped back, horrified.

"I—no. I came to strike the sky, not you."

The chamber dimmed.

"To strike the sky, you must stand upon the truth. The blade must pass through my roots. Only then will it reach Uranus."

He trembled.

"Will it hurt you?"

A pause.

"Yes."

"Will it kill you?"

"No. But it will change me."

He dropped the sickle.

"I don't want to be a god that wounds his mother."

"You already are. But if you do not act, the wound remains unspoken. And your siblings will bear it instead."

The sickle rose on its own, hovering before him.

"There is a place," she said, "between my breaths. A single line, carved when the world first took shape. Strike there, and the sky will bleed."

Kronos stepped forward.

His hand gripped the sickle, which now hummed—not like metal, but like a song half-forgotten.

The chamber pulsed.

Roots parted.

And before him opened a seam—not bleeding, not bruised—but waiting.

A scar without pain.

Yet.

"Forgive me," Kronos whispered.

Gaia did not answer.

She only breathed.

And in the silence between breaths, Kronos struck.

The blade did not cut flesh.

It passed through myth.

Through the idea of pain.

And into the sky above.

Uranus felt it.

A moment too late.

A flash across his thoughts.

Not injury.

But betrayal.

In the Hollow, Elias fell to one knee.

The Tree screamed.

A thousand new myths bloomed at once.

The stars above Aetherion shifted.

And in the dark beneath the heart, a hidden soul laughed for the first time.

Kronos staggered backward.

The blade fell from his hand.

The wound sealed itself.

But it was not gone.

It had been made.

And now it waited.

For the moment to open again.

When Uranus would fall.

Not now.

But soon.

Gaia spoke once more.

"You are now marked, my son. Not by pride. But by weight."

"What weight?"

"To remember why you did it. Even when the world forgets."

He picked up the sickle.

"Then let me never forget."

Far away, in the dreaming of mortals not yet born, a whisper passed:

"Time began when sky bled."