A hundred years had passed since Ashel and Lunara first stepped beyond the garden's borders. The world outside, vast and untamed, had become their home. They had endured seasons of hardship and moments of joy, carving out a life for themselves and their descendants.

The Watcher, the unseen guide who had once walked among them in secret, had finally departed. Its task was complete. With the Architect's will fulfilled, it returned to the heavens, leaving Ashel and Lunara to walk the path of mortality without divine oversight.

In that time, their children had grown, married, and multiplied. Generations had come and gone, building shelters, cultivating the land, and shaping the first true civilization of humankind. But with growth came struggle. Resources had to be fought for, disputes settled, and questions answered that no one knew how to ask before.

Now, Ashel and Lunara stood at the edge of a river, the moonlight reflecting off its steady current. Their hands, once young and strong, were now lined with age, their bodies no longer swift as they had once been.

"Lunara," Ashel murmured, watching the water flow. "Do you think the Architect still watches over us?"

She smiled softly, though the sorrow in her eyes was unmistakable. "I know He does." She placed a hand over his. "Even if we can no longer hear His voice... He is here."

Ashel nodded, but a shadow of doubt flickered in his heart. So much had changed. The world had grown larger than he ever imagined, and though their people flourished, he couldn't shake the feeling that something unseen was stirring in the distance.

Something was coming.

The days passed quietly, but beneath the surface of their growing people, something had begun to shift.

Ashel and Lunara watched as their descendants built homes, tilled the land, and expanded beyond what they had ever imagined. Villages formed, and their children's children flourished. Yet with growth came differences—differences in thought, in belief, in the way they viewed the world.

One evening, as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, two groups stood before Ashel and Lunara, voices raised in disagreement.

"This land belongs to all of us," said one man, his hair streaked with silver. "We are a family, meant to share what we have, as our forebears did."

A younger man shook his head. "Sharing makes us weak. We work for what we have, and those who do nothing should not take from us. If we do not protect what is ours, others will take it away."

Lunara's heart ached as she listened. She had always hoped that their children would remain united, but now, standing before them, she saw the first signs of division.

"Must we argue over this?" she asked gently. "Haven't we endured enough hardship together?"

But the seeds had already been planted.

Ashel placed a hand on her shoulder. "This is not just a dispute. It is something deeper." He turned to his people. "There is enough for all, but if we turn against each other, we will be no better than the beasts of the wild."

Yet as night fell, no resolution came.

Some sought unity. Others sought power.

And for the first time, Ashel and Lunara feared that the peace they had built might not last forever.

Years passed. The world continued to change, growing with the lives of those who remained.

But time was merciless, even to those who had once been the first.

At the age of 628, Ashel and Lunara—the father and mother of all—breathed their last.

Their children, their grandchildren, and the generations that followed stood in mourning. They had always been there, guiding them, offering wisdom, reminding them of the days when all was new. Now, they were gone.

A hush fell over the land as their bodies were laid to rest—not in the cold earth, but beneath great stones, untouched by the ground. A tradition had formed among them, a way to honor those who had passed without allowing the earth to swallow them.

For days, no one spoke.

For the first time, their children felt true loss.

Yet even as their bodies remained, their souls ascended beyond the reach of those left behind.

Through the unseen veil, Ashel and Lunara found themselves drawn into a familiar warmth—a presence that had never truly left them.

When they opened their eyes, they were no longer in the world of men. They stood once more before the Architect. His form was vast, unknowable, yet filled with a radiance that embraced them like the first light of dawn.

He looked upon them with deep satisfaction, his voice carrying both power and warmth.

"Welcome home."

Ashel and Lunara fell to their knees, overwhelmed by his presence, by the weight of their journey, by the longing they had never spoken aloud.

The Architect reached out, his voice gentle.

"You have done well. You have guided your children with wisdom, endured hardship, and remained steadfast. Your time among them has ended... but I will not leave you without a place."

His hands lifted, and the light around them shifted.

The garden—the place they had once walked, where they had taken their first breath—stretched out before them once more. It was untouched by time, untouched by sorrow. It had waited for them.

"Return," the Architect said. "Take care of it, for it is your home, and will always be."

A soft wind stirred through the leaves, and Ashel and Lunara stepped forward.

They had returned.

And though their children remained in the world they had left behind, the first man and woman would once again walk the land where it had all begun.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The passing of Ashel and Lunara left a void that could not be filled. Their children—the first generations of humankind—felt the weight of their absence. No longer could they seek their wisdom, no longer could they hear their voices guiding them.

For years, they tried to move forward, holding on to the traditions their parents had left behind. But without Ashel and Lunara, doubt began to creep in. Disputes arose. Small conflicts over land, food, and leadership began to surface.

Without a guiding hand, without the first mother and father to unify them, the people began to splinter.

A shift was coming.

And though they did not yet know it, something watched from the darkness, waiting for the moment when uncertainty would turn into something far worse.

The fire crackled softly as the night settled over the land. The stars above shone brightly, but there was an emptiness in the air—one that could not be ignored.

"They are truly gone..." whispered Miran, the eldest of Ashel and Lunara's children. His hands trembled as he traced the carvings on the stones that marked their resting place. "Father... Mother... what are we supposed to do now?"

Beside him, his younger brother, Edros, clenched his fists. "They guided us all our lives. Without them... who will lead us?"

Silence followed. Their siblings and children stood behind them, their faces pale in the firelight. The once-united family of Ashel and Lunara now faced something unfamiliar—uncertainty.

"We follow their teachings," said Althea, their youngest sister, though her voice lacked confidence. "We continue what they started. We stay together."

"That is easier said than done," muttered a voice from the crowd.

Miran looked up sharply. It was Oras, one of the more distant descendants. His expression was shadowed with doubt. "Without them, we are weak. We are vulnerable. The world beyond this land is growing. Others will come. We must prepare."

"Prepare for what?" Edros shot back. "Fight? There has never been a fight among us!"

"Not yet," Oras said coldly. "But it is only a matter of time."

A murmur rippled through the gathered family. For the first time in their history, a divide had begun to form. Some agreed with Oras—believing that strength and leadership were needed to protect what Ashel and Lunara had built. Others clung to the idea that unity and peace would be their greatest shield.

Miran turned his gaze back to the stones. He felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on his shoulders.

"Father... Mother... is this what you feared?"

He closed his eyes.

Up above, unseen to them all, two figures watched from the heavens.

Ashel and Lunara stood before the Architect, their spirits bathed in the warmth of His presence.

"It is beginning," Lunara murmured, watching as their children quarreled.

Ashel lowered his gaze. "They are afraid."

The Architect's voice was gentle yet firm. "Fear leads to choices. And choices shape the path of all things." He turned to them, His presence unwavering. "That is why I am sending you back."

Lunara's eyes widened. "Back... to the garden?"

The Architect nodded. "It is where you began. And it is where you shall remain, watching over the home I entrusted to you. No longer as mortals, but as its caretakers."

A warm light surrounded them.

The next moment, Ashel and Lunara opened their eyes—standing once more in the garden. But now, they were different. No longer bound by mortal flesh. They had become something greater.

And in the world below, their children stood at a crossroads—one that would define the future of humankind.

The air was thick with unease. The gathered family of Ashel and Lunara stood beneath the stars, their mourning now overshadowed by a question that had no simple answer—who would lead them?

Miran stepped forward, his expression steady despite the uncertainty in his heart. "We must stay together. That was Father and Mother's wish."

Edros nodded. "We have always been one family. There is no need for a ruler—we can govern ourselves, as they did."

But Oras scoffed, his arms crossed. "That was fine when they were here to guide us. But they are gone now. If we remain leaderless, we will fall into chaos. Someone must take charge."

Althea clenched her fists. "And who do you believe that should be, Oras?"

Oras stepped forward, his presence strong. "I am willing to take that burden."

A hush fell over the gathering. Some exchanged wary glances, while others murmured in agreement.

Miran's expression darkened. "This is not a kingdom, Oras. We are not meant to rule over one another."

"You call it ruling," Oras countered. "I call it protecting." He gestured around them. "You think we are alone in this world? That there are no dangers beyond our sight? Father and Mother kept us safe, but now it is up to us. And I refuse to let our people be weak."

"You speak of strength," Edros said, stepping beside Miran, "but do you understand what that truly means? Strength is not forcing others to follow—it is standing together."

Oras smirked. "Then stand behind me, and I will lead us."

The tension crackled like fire in dry wood.

Some nodded, drawn to Oras' confidence. Others looked uneasy. A choice was being placed before them.

Miran turned to the others. "I ask you not to decide in haste. We have lost enough already."

A silence stretched between them.

Finally, one of the younger men stepped forward. "Let us rest," he said hesitantly. "We can speak of this again when the sun rises."

Miran exhaled slowly, nodding. "Very well. Let wisdom guide us."

But as the people dispersed, Oras lingered, his gaze hard.

Night had fallen on Ashel and Lunara's children. And with it, the first shadow of a rift.

The tension in the air was suffocating. A fire crackled between them, casting flickering shadows across their faces. The children of Ashel and Lunara—now grown, their numbers vast—stood divided. The unity they once shared had begun to unravel.

Miran stepped forward, his expression firm. "We have always been one people. We have survived together, thrived together. Why must we break apart now?"

Edros crossed his arms. "He's right. We are stronger together. Splitting up will only make us weaker."

But Oras shook his head. "We were never meant to stay in one place forever. The world is vast, filled with lands we have yet to see. We should each carve our own path, build our own future."

A murmur ran through the gathered crowd. Some nodded in agreement, their eyes filled with longing for the unknown. Others looked uneasy, reluctant to leave behind the only life they had ever known.

Althea's voice was soft but resolute. "The world is dangerous. If we separate, we may never see each other again. Is that truly what you want?"

Oras met her gaze without hesitation. "I want freedom. I want a future where we are not bound to one way of living."

A long silence followed. Then, one by one, people began stepping toward the one they wished to follow. By the time the fire had burned low, three groups had formed.

Miran, Edros, and Althea stood together, their brothers and sisters unwilling to abandon the unity of their father and mother. But Oras and the other siblings, along with their wife and children, turned away, disappearing into the wilderness with nothing but the stars to guide them.

As they walked away, Miran called out, "Oras, this is not the end. No matter where we go, we are still one people."

Oras hesitated, then looked back. "Then let's see if fate allows us to meet again."

And with that, the first great division of humankind began.

Days had passed since the separation. The absence of Oras and his followers left a quiet, lingering sorrow among those who remained. But Miran, Edros, and Althea knew they could not dwell on the past. It was time to rebuild, to give their people a new purpose.

Standing atop a large stone, Miran addressed the gathered crowd. "We were once one people, guided by our father and mother. Though we have parted ways, we must not forget who we are."

Edros nodded. "Our parents built the foundation of our existence. If we are to continue, we must honor their legacy."

Althea stepped forward, her gaze sweeping over the faces of their people. "Let our tribe bear the names of Ashel and Lunara, so that we never forget where we came from."

A murmur of agreement spread through the crowd.

One of the elders stepped forward hesitantly. "Then... what shall we call ourselves?"

Miran placed a hand over his heart. "We are the Ashelun."

Edros and Althea smiled, repeating the name with pride. "Ashelun."

A new identity was born.

Meanwhile, far beyond the hills, Oras and his people traveled deeper into the unknown. They did not look back. To them, the past was something to move beyond, not cling to.

"We will make our own way," Oras said, his eyes scanning the horizon. "We will not live under the past, but shape the future in our own image."

His siblings and their followers agreed. As they built their new home, the way they spoke began to change—subtle at first, then more pronounced. Words shifted, meanings altered.

One of his brothers looked up at the sky. "The stars here feel... different."

Oras smirked. "Then let's give them new names."

Thus, without realizing it, the first great divergence in language had begun.