Hot sun and blistering winds were all that swept through these barren lands, casting their gazes over nothing but sand and cracked earth. Yet the landscape still bore the vestiges of civilization, the few marks that man had made upon stone and dirt. In the distance were raised walls and crumbled roofs, torn tents and scattered stones that were a reminder of those that used to stand here. A flattened path wounds its way through the skeletal remains of the village, little more than packed sand bordered by stones. Of the buildings, they had long since been abandoned; even the bones that were left behind inside had now been ground away into dust. The oasis that was the lifeblood of this desolate land had dried up eons ago, leaving behind only a faint depression. Like a scar on the earth, like a memory, it was nothing more than a fateful reminder of what used to be.

And yet it all stood in the shadow of something greater, of something grander. Towering up towards the sky stood a massive construction of stone and clay, reinforced with bone and crackling shadow. Perhaps it was some temple, some monument of the past with a purpose long forgotten. Like a spire or a giant’s rib, it shot out of the ground with a skeletal image. There were no distinguishable markings on its surface, on its glossy exterior of black that seemed to shimmer the longer one held their gaze upon it. The very shadow it cast upon the ground seemed to rise up around it, sheathing it with a shroud of fog and darkness. Its very tip could not be seen, for it seemed to pierce through the sky and disappear into scorned heavens. The only feature that could be made out was a single opening—an ancient door that stood slightly ajar. Fashioned from stone and covered in etchings that had long since been weathered away, it seemed utterly innocuous as it resisted the desert wind.

But that wind belied a curious truth, for it stirred the sands below. The grains blew about on zephyrous tides, strewn without care—but they did not pass through that opened door. The wind itself blew around the stone, as if ignorance could influence truth. Nothing seemed to wander through that opened door—through a crack no wider than a finger. No light seemed to shine through that space, in defiance of the blazing sun. There seemed to be nothing inside.

Yet there was a hallway, unlit and untouched. Its black-wreathed stones bore strange carvings and runes, all unblemished by the wear of time. They conveyed unknown thoughts in an unknown tongue, winding down a long passageway that seemed to stretch on for the latter half of an eternity. They ran along the walls, underneath ornate pictures chiseled into the stone by gifted hands. Perhaps they were describing the images, describing the scenes that were displayed. The truth could not be known; it had vanished into the sands alongside its creator. But the pictures still stood, stark as shadow under the sun.

Two brothers stood interlocked, their figures bound in a struggle that had no end. In one’s hand bore the day, the sun, a gift of heat and hope. In the other’s was the night, the shadow, that might snuff out the flame. In one’s hand bore the seed, a single grain of infinite life. In the other’s was the cold, that might sap away all strength. Two brothers, interlocked, yet there were no expressions on their faces. There were no features on their faces.

The first was named Ajah, and he fought for life. The skies and the sun were all his doing. The earth was his dried blood, the rivers his tears. He was the Creator, the elder brother, and all from grass to cattle were the fruits of his labor.

The second was named Atal, and his touch was that of death. The night and the cold were his to command. His breath brought the winter that blighted the lands, and from his blood flowed the poison that tainted the fields. He was the Destroyer, the younger brother, and he sought to unravel all that his sibling had woven.

For a hundred days and a hundred nights, the brothers wrestled. From their footprints came the mountains, from their sweat formed the oceans. Yet neither could prove himself stronger, and in the end the collapsed, exhausted. There they withered away, claimed by the very world that they sought to control. Their bodies were blown away into dust, leaving behind only soul and mind. The first was torn apart by wind and rain, scattering into the land as magic. The second remained, imprinting on the earth and those that walked upon it.

Eons passed before the brothers woke. Ajah was the first to do so, and his gaze fell upon the untainted lands that stretched before him. While his brother slept, he fashioned man in his image. With the wind as his voice, he taught them fire, that they needed not to fear the cold. Ajah watched with pride as his creations grew in number, settling the earth. When Atal woke, he gazed at man with horror.

Jealous that he could never fashion anything to rival his elder brother’s creation, he plotted and schemed. Swearing to undo all that his brother had made, Atal slowly tainted the men that lived upon his corpse. Their minds were broken, their blood poisoned. In the end, as they slid daggers across their throats, shadows sprouted out of their corpses. Pleased, Atal named the shadow-mothers skal, named the corrupted men that served only to birth shadows from their bodies. Silently, slowly, he watched and waited as the shadows grew in number, hiding in the dark.

Yet Ajah knew of his brother’s planning. He gave to his creations the gift of magic, the remnants of his own soul. Many were unable to accept the burden, their flesh falling apart as they convulsed, but a few still stood at the end of the ordeal. At their fingertips, mahji spun. And when the shadows finally came, the channelers summoned a blaze to stop them.

Atal could only watch as his brother’s creations burned away his shadows, children of the skal. He could only watch as the channelers hunted down his skal, burned away his shadow-mothers until not even ashes remained. At the end of his rope, he hid his final skal in the earth, beneath his own corpse. The channelers thought themselves victorious, settling above his own body. Even Ajah himself had thought his brother was finally defeated.

Yet Atal waited quietly, watching as man spread and grew. His skal birthed more shadow, and his whispers touched the minds of more men. One by one, they knelt before him in ecstatic submission. Forgotten, he schemed. Unknown, he planned. He waited for a time when he might triumph over his brother, when he might see the sun swallowed by shadow.

Such was what the carvings showed—an ancient truth long forgotten. And at the end of the tale, the passageway itself opened up to a massive hall. There were no windows for light, no torches to illuminate the sloping walls and stepped floor. There was no way to see the coffin that displayed itself in the center, surrounded by dancing shadows that hissed expectantly. There was no way to see the corpse inside, withered with age and sapped of blood or life.There was no way to see its shriveled arm suddenly move, paper-thin skin suddenly gripping the side of the coffin with unnatural strength.

Slowly, the corpse rose and clambered out of its coffin with weary movements. The shadows around it rose up greedily, slowly surrounding it with a gentle touch. As if greeting a lover, they swallowed it in a billowing embrace. Pluming darkness wrapped around the dead as the corpse opened its eyes, revealing pupils of bottomless black.

“My god wakes.” Faith whispered, its lonely rasp the first sound to have graced these stones in millenia. The very walls seemed to shudder, the shadows dancing to the cadence of the echoes. Abruptly, the corpse suddenly arched its back with a hoarse gasp, shadows flying into its throat with a tumultuous eagerness. In the span of three heartbeats, Faith collapsed to the ground with a shiver, twitching haplessly before once more slowly struggling to his feet.

Well done, my servant. The voice that rippled out of the corpse’s throat was timeless, was befitting that of a god’s.