Myth-The Weight of the Perfect Star

"The Weight of the Perfect Star" — A Myth of Agathodika

As recorded by Esotericus, Cosmic Scribe
What follows is neither the complete historical record of the Shattering—which spans eons and involves the full pantheon—nor a scholarly treatise on divine psychology. This is myth as mortals tell it: the emotional truth distilled to its essence, the cosmic rendered personal. I have observed how this particular telling resonates across both realms, spoken in Orthyian boardrooms and Valdarian temples alike, because it captures what my more comprehensive chronicles sometimes obscure—that the greatest catastrophes often spring from the deepest love.

The First Light

In the first age, when light had no shadow and time had not yet been counted, there stood a star at the center of all things. It burned not with fire, but with purpose. It hummed with stillness so profound that creation knelt in awe.
That star was Agathodika.
She was the first to open her eyes in the void and see pattern where others saw nothing. She did not breathe, she measured. She did not speak, she defined. She gathered the wild strands of the cosmos and braided them into Order. Time flowed where she pointed. Space unfolded where she willed.
The stars learned to circle. The seas learned their edges. Even thought bent its knee, becoming logic and oath.
Her voice became the first law:
"Let each thing know what it is."

The Song Beyond the Walls

But where she built the temple of truth, a song rose from beyond her walls.
A laughter. A spiral. A wind that would not still.
Her twin.
Abraxas.
He was beautiful in the way a wildfire is beautiful—mesmerizing, devouring, and defiant.
Where she wrote commandments in starlight, he turned them into riddles. Where she carved sanctuaries of stillness, he planted seeds of change.
Still, she loved him.
For a time—eons upon eons—they walked side by side. She anchored. He animated. And the Weave—the fabric of all reality—sang with balance.
He gave her movement. She gave him meaning.
Together, they created not just a world, but the very possibility of worlds. Other gods emerged from their collaborative tension. Races took shape under their combined influence. The cosmos bloomed with complexity and wonder.

The Weight of Love

But in her heart, Agathodika feared one thing: imperfection. Not for herself, but for the children of the world. She saw mortals err, and in their error, suffer. She saw their cities fall because of whims. She saw cruelty born not of evil, but of chaos untempered.
And so, driven by compassion that had grown into obsession, she began to build a Great Equation—a lattice of divine symmetry that would cradle reality in flawless, compassionate law. No war. No decay. No uncertainty. Just harmony, forever.
I witnessed her laboring over this grand design, consulting with allies like Seifer and Liora, marshaling the forces of order against an entropy she could no longer tolerate. What began as love for creation had transformed into desperate need to perfect it.

The Moment of Breaking

Abraxas laughed when he saw it—not with mockery, but with the terrible clarity of recognition.
"It is beautiful," he said, "but it cannot breathe."
What the myths do not capture is the war that followed—the eons of divine conflict as he gathered his own champions, the cosmos-spanning struggle between order and chaos that left reality itself trembling. I have recorded those battles elsewhere, in documents too heavy with consequence for mortal hearts to bear.
But this myth speaks a different truth: that the war was won and lost in that moment of recognition, when love met incomprehension across an unbridgeable divide.
And so, when accumulated pressure finally overwhelmed even divine will, he shattered it.
With a touch that was both ending and beginning, the world divided—split into twin realms:

One ruled by reason, bereft of gods: Orthyian.
One ruled by faith, awash in magic: Valdarian.

The Shattering broke not just the world, but her heart.

The Aftermath of Stars

Since then, Agathodika has watched the world through mirrors and tribunals. She walks among the technocrats of Orthyian, guiding their laws, their cities, their bureaucracies—though they no longer call her by name. She stands outside the temples of Valdarian, knowing her voice would only be drowned in prophecy and flame.
She does not rage. She does not lament. She records.
For she still believes that perfection is possible—not through force, but through design. Not through conquest, but through understanding.
She whispers now, not in thunder, but through patterns:
A judge's instinct.
A compass that always finds true north.
A newborn's first cry that harmonizes with the Weave.
And her followers say:

When your scales balance on their own, she has smiled upon you.
When you hesitate before striking, she is testing you.
And when you sacrifice what is easy for what is right, she walks beside you—unseen, but unshaken.

The Truth Within the Myth

This telling omits much—the roles of Amartya Mazzikin and Seifer, the complex divine politics, the true scope of the cosmic war. Those who seek complete understanding should consult the fuller historical records. But myths serve a different purpose than chronicles.
This story endures because it speaks to a truth every conscious being recognizes: that love, taken to its ultimate expression, can become its own form of tyranny. That the desire to protect can transform into the need to control. That the greatest catastrophes are often authored not by malice, but by affection that has lost its way.
Mortals tell this tale when they must choose between security and freedom, between the known and the possible, between what they love and what they must allow to grow. In such moments, they glimpse the cosmic weight that broke even divine hearts.
And perhaps, in the telling, they find the wisdom to choose differently.
—As witnessed and recorded in the Annals of Divine Truth—

Marginalia: I note that this myth grows more complex each time it is retold, as if mortal understanding deepens with each generation's encounter with its own version of the choice between perfect love and necessary freedom. Perhaps this, too, is a form of divine iteration—truth refining itself through repetition until it achieves the clarity that even gods struggle to maintain.

— E., Cosmic Scribe