In the Realm of Aetherion, where stars were born and time bent like light through crystal, there stood a golden palace floating atop the clouds. Within it dwelled powerful beings—immortal, divine, and endlessly stubborn.

Chief among them was Thandor, the Thunder-Father, Warden of Storms and Lord of Order. Clad in volcanic armor with a voice that could split mountains, Thandor ruled his domain with authority… until he was left alone with his divine offspring.

Three of them. Each more troublesome than the next.*

Kael, god of mischief and spark, had turned the sky crimson just for fun. Lyra, goddess of echoes, had trapped the palace in an endless loop of knock-knock jokes. And Ziv, a toddler with the raw, untamed power of chaos itself, had opened a rift in time so they could go “backwards for snacks.”

Thandor stood amid the cosmic mess, his lightning crown flickering with stress. The stars above hiccuped, comets flew sideways, and the moon had somehow been replaced by a giant marshmallow.

“That’s it,” he boomed. “I’m summoning your mother.”

The children froze.

“You wouldn’t,” Kael whispered, eyes wide.

“I must. I swore I’d never use the Sigil unless things were dire.” Thandor clenched his fist, and a radiant glyph flared into existence in the air.

“No, Father, please,” Lyra begged, her voice echoing in ten languages at once.

“You’ve left me no choice,” he said, voice cracking slightly as he drew the final line in the air.

The clouds above roared—not from his power, but from hers.

A hush fell across the skies.

And then…

She arrived.

Lori, the All-Mother. Goddess of Discipline, Balance, and Terrifying Calm. She did not ride a chariot of fire. She did not shout. She simply descended from the upper planes, draped in a flowing robe of nebula silk, her eyes glowing with ancient light.

She touched down without a sound.

Thandor shrank half an inch.

“…My flame,” he said nervously, clasping his hands behind his back. “I—uh—regret disturbing your meditation chamber.”

She surveyed the scene: Time broken in half. The sky unstitched. A trail of peanut butter leading into the Void.