In the time before time, when no soul yet wept and no star had sung, there was only Balance.
It did not shine like Heaven.
It did not burn like Hell.
It simply was.
Balance was not a force to be worshiped. It held no throne, wore no crown, wielded no blade. It asked for nothing—only that the scales remain even.
And for a while, they did.
When the Creator molded the heavens from breath and bone, Balance watched. When angels were born from starlight and will, Balance was still. When mortals were given choice, chaos, and consequence—it did not move.
It only moved when Heaven lied to itself.
The first lie was small. A single soul condemned to the outer dark for daring to ask why it suffered. The angels called it rebellion. The Throne called it heresy. Balance called it a crack.
Then came more lies.
Laws written in pride.
Mercy traded for order.
Truth ignored in the name of hierarchy.
With each fracture in divine justice, Balance stirred.
Not in anger.
Not in vengeance.
But in response.
From Balance rose a shape, sculpted from the very concept of consequence. It had no name, but the realms would come to know it by many: The Mirror, The Flame, The Silent One, Heaven's Retribution.
It does not serve good.
It does not serve evil.
It serves only truth—however terrible that truth may be.
It watches the divine.
It judges the holy.
And when it walks, even Heaven must answer.