CONTINUED

The memory lingered, sharp and uninvited, as Kahina stared out across the fragile glow of the Pleroma, her wings folded tightly against her back. It was always there, wasn’t it? That council meeting, etched into her mind like a poorly written poem she couldn’t stop reciting. Every time she thought of the Aeons—those radiant, endlessly complicated beings—it was as though the taste of their words still lingered on her tongue, all sweetened venom and polished lies.

Ah, the Aeons. Eternal architects of existence. Shining stewards of the cosmos. Masters of doing absolutely nothing while the world fell apart around them. Truly, if procrastination were an art form, they would be celebrated as the greatest painters of all time.

“Protect the Pleroma,” they had said. “Restore balance to the light,” they had said.

Funny, though—Kahina distinctly remembered how none of them had *volunteered* to come down from their pedestals of self-importance and help. No, they were far too busy arguing over their “divine roles,” as though debating who deserved the biggest slice of the proverbial cosmic pie was more important than stopping the literal fabric of reality from ripping itself apart.

And then there was Sophia. Oh, let’s not forget her. The beloved thorn in the side of creation. If the Aeons were stars, blazing and overbearing, Sophia was the shadow that lingered between them, cool and unassuming, but somehow far more dangerous.

“Ambition isn’t a flaw,” she had said during that fateful council meeting, her tone so soft and reasonable you almost wanted to believe her. “It’s what drives the light to grow. To evolve.”

To evolve? Kahina had nearly laughed out loud. The light wasn’t “evolving”; it was hemorrhaging. Fracturing. Splintering into shards of chaos that she and Lyrion were now expected to pick up while the Aeons lounged around debating the philosophical nuances of “progress.”

But Sophia’s gift—if you could call it that—was never in her words. No, her true art was the silence that followed them, the way her seemingly innocent observations wrapped themselves around the hearts of the other Aeons and squeezed, planting seeds of doubt and division.

Even now, Kahina could still picture the way Sophia’s smile had curved ever so slightly as Barbelo pronounced Kahina and Lyrion the Pleroma’s protectors. It wasn’t mockery—no, that would have been too obvious. It was something far worse: satisfaction.

Sophia had known exactly what she was doing. By saying little, she had said everything. The Aeons had watched Kahina and Lyrion with unreadable expressions as Barbelo placed the weight of the Pleroma into their hands. And while some of those gazes had carried a glimmer of respect, others—most—had been tinged with something far less charitable.

Suspicion. Doubt.

Not at the Pleroma’s peril, mind you, but at Kahina and Lyrion’s role in preserving it. Oh, how convenient it was for the Aeons to question whether two outsiders could be trusted with such responsibility, especially when none of them had stepped forward to shoulder it themselves.

Even now, the memory of it made Kahina’s fists clench, her wings trembling faintly with restrained fury. Lyrion, ever the measured one, had kept his composure during that meeting, nodding respectfully and offering all the right words to soothe the fragile egos of the divine.

But Kahina? Oh, she hadn’t even tried.

“I’ll protect the Pleroma,” she had said, her voice cutting through the luminous chamber like a blade. “But don’t mistake that for loyalty to *you.*”

The silence that followed had been deafening. Barbelo hadn’t said a word, though there had been the faintest flicker of approval in her endless gaze. The Aeons, however, had not been so gracious.

“Loyalty,” one of them had repeated, their voice like the toll of a mournful bell. “Without loyalty, how can the light endure?”

“It endures,” Kahina had snapped, “because some of us are willing to do what’s necessary while the rest of you argue about it.”

Oh, the *audacity*! The chamber had practically vibrated with the weight of their disapproval, their radiant forms dimming as though her words had personally offended the very essence of their beings. But Kahina hadn’t cared. Why should she? The Pleroma wasn’t breaking because of her. It wasn’t breaking because of Lyrion. It was breaking because of *them*—their inaction, their arrogance, their refusal to see the fractures beneath their feet until they’d grown too wide to ignore.

Of course, none of them had said that outright. No, the Aeons were far too dignified to admit fault. But the tension in the room had been palpable, a silent battle waged between the protectors of the light and the very beings who claimed to embody it.

After the meeting had ended, Kahina had stood on the edge of the chamber, staring out at the infinite expanse of the Pleroma. Lyrion had joined her, his presence quiet and steady as always.

“Well,” he had said after a long pause, his voice laced with dry humor. “That went well.”

Kahina had laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “If this is what harmony looks like, I’d hate to see what chaos feels like.”

Lyrion’s lips had twitched into a faint smile, but there was something heavy in his gaze as he looked back toward the chamber. “They don’t trust us,” he had said, though the words didn’t carry the weight of complaint—just observation.

“They don’t trust anyone but themselves,” Kahina had replied. “And even that’s a stretch.”

She had thought of Sophia then, her soft words, her shadowed smile. Kahina had seen the Aeons falter at Sophia’s quiet whispers, their unity unraveling thread by thread.

“She’ll undo them,” Kahina had murmured, more to herself than to Lyrion.

“Maybe,” he had said, his tone thoughtful. “Or maybe they’ll undo themselves. Sophia just… lights the match.”

And now, as Kahina stared out across the fractured light of the Pleroma, she couldn’t help but wonder if that match was already burning.

The light wasn’t the same anymore. It pulsed unevenly, its warmth dimmed, its essence scarred. And though Kahina had saved that fragment of divine light—though she had clutched it to her chest and fought to return it to the Pleroma—it felt like something had been lost in the process.

Maybe it wasn’t the void that was the greatest threat to creation. Maybe it never had been.

Maybe it was the light itself—the arrogance of those who wielded it, the cracks they refused to see.

And maybe, just maybe, it was the very ones who whispered in the shadows, sowing discord in the name of ambition.

 

Ah, but of course, that was the essence of the divine, wasn’t it? Infinite wisdom, infinite power, and infinitely incapable of deciding who was in charge of sweeping the mess under the rug. The Pleroma wasn’t just a realm of light and harmony—it was a soap opera of cosmic proportions, starring beings so radiant they couldn’t help but outshine their own common sense. And who, naturally, was left to pick up the pieces when their brilliance shattered?

Why, Kahina and Lyrion, of course.

“Chosen protectors,” Barbelo had called them, though Kahina suspected “unpaid interns of creation” might have been a more accurate title. Protectors of the Pleroma. Defenders of harmony. Babysitters for beings who couldn’t agree whether existence should be sung, painted, or sculpted out of divine light. They were the Band-Aid slapped over an open wound, the glue holding together a vase that was already in pieces.

And oh, how grateful the Aeons had been. Kahina could still hear their silence ringing in her ears, louder than any applause could ever have been. Not a word of thanks, not a glimmer of acknowledgment. No, their approval had been reserved for their own cleverness, their own machinations. After all, it wasn’t *their* problem anymore, was it? It was *hers*.

“Trust them,” Barbelo had said, her voice serene and immutable, as though such a thing were possible. “The Aeons will guide you.”

Guide her? Kahina had yet to see an Aeon guide anything but their own inflated egos. At best, they were abstract artists sketching theories in the air, too preoccupied with the concept of perfection to notice the cracks in their canvas. At worst, they were like Sophia, the silver-tongued spider weaving threads of distrust so fine you didn’t notice them until you were already tangled.

Kahina could still picture the council chamber, that kaleidoscope of endless light and sound where the Aeons had gathered to bicker over eternity. She remembered the faint hum of their voices, each one sharper and more polished than the last, debating the “nature of existence” while the Pleroma cracked beneath their feet.

“Balance must be restored,” one of them had intoned, their words sweeping across the chamber like the toll of a distant bell.

“Yes, balance,” another had agreed, their radiance dimming ever so slightly as they turned toward their counterpart. “But balance must be achieved with care. Haste only deepens the fractures.”

“And hesitation allows them to spread,” a third countered, their voice edged with something that might have been frustration.

“Perhaps it is not the fractures that are the problem,” Sophia had mused then, her voice soft and deliberate, like a needle slipping through cloth. “Perhaps it is the rigidity of the structure itself.”

And there it was—the spark that had set the fire ablaze. Kahina had felt the shift in the room before it even happened, that faint ripple of tension spreading outward like cracks in glass. The Aeons had turned on one another after that, their voices rising in a crescendo of polished accusations and thinly veiled insults.

Kahina had stood at the edge of it all, her blade resting against her hip, her wings tucked tight against her back. She had wanted to speak, to cut through their arguments with the same precision she brought to battle, but Lyrion had placed a hand on her arm, his expression warning her to hold back.

“Let them burn themselves out,” he had murmured, his voice barely audible above the din.

“Burn themselves out?” Kahina had shot back, her voice dripping with disbelief. “They’re not candles, Lyrion—they’re bonfires. And we’re the ones who’ll have to clean up the ashes.”

He had smirked at that, though the exhaustion in his eyes betrayed him. “And yet here we are.”

“Here we are,” she had echoed bitterly, her gaze shifting to Barbelo, who stood at the center of it all, silent and still. She hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved. She had simply watched as the Aeons unraveled themselves, her radiance unyielding as though the chaos were just another melody in the grand symphony of existence.

But Kahina had seen it then, in the faint tilt of Barbelo’s head, in the subtle way her light pulsed in time with the arguments around her. Barbelo wasn’t ignoring the discord—she was letting it play out, waiting for the moment when the crescendo reached its peak and the silence that followed could be shaped into something new.

And when that moment came, Barbelo had spoken.

“You are the stewards of the light,” she had said, her voice cutting through the noise like the first note of a new song. “But it is no longer yours alone to hold.”

The chamber had stilled, the Aeons’ radiance dimming as they turned their attention to her.

“The Pleroma is fracturing,” Barbelo continued, her gaze sweeping across the room. “Not because of the void, nor because of the shadow. It is fracturing because we have forgotten what it means to *create together.*”

Kahina had felt the weight of those words settle over her like a second skin.

“It is time,” Barbelo had said then, her light blazing as she turned toward Kahina and Lyrion, “for others to bear this burden. Others who are not bound by the roles we have built for ourselves. Kahina. Lyrion. You will be my hands in the light, my voice in the silence. You will protect the Pleroma, and in doing so, you will remind us of what we have lost.”

Kahina had felt the gaze of the Aeons on her then, sharp and heavy, as though they were weighing her worth in that moment. And she had met their stares with fire in her eyes, daring them to challenge her.

She wasn’t sure if she had been chosen or condemned that day, but it didn’t matter. The burden had been hers to carry, whether she wanted it or not.

And now, as she stood on the fractured edge of the Pleroma, her marked hand aching faintly at her side, she wondered if Barbelo had seen this moment too. If she had known what would happen when she handed the Pleroma to those who weren’t blinded by their own light.

“Protect the Pleroma,” Kahina muttered under her breath, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Sure. Easy. I’ll just glue eternity back together with sheer force of will. No problem at all.”

Lyrion appeared at her side then, his staff glowing faintly, his wings casting long, sharp shadows across the fractured ground. He didn’t speak, but the look he gave her was one of quiet understanding.

“Don’t start,” she said, though her tone lacked the bite she intended.

“I wasn’t going to,” he replied, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Together, they stared out at the horizon, where the light of the Pleroma flickered uncertainly against the encroaching gray of the void. It wasn’t much—but it was still standing.

For now.

The horizon of the Pleroma shimmered weakly, a wounded sun bleeding light into an ocean of shadows. Kahina watched it flicker, hands on her hips, wings faintly flaring behind her like an impatient flame. There it was—the grand, eternal expanse of divine creation—barely holding itself together, and somehow it still had the audacity to look *picturesque.* Even on the verge of collapse, the Pleroma insisted on being beautiful.

“Oh, how poetic,” she muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes. “The light persists. The darkness retreats. Balance restored. Cue the choir.” She waved a hand dismissively at the horizon. “Just ignore the part where it’s all one spilled glass away from shattering again.”

Lyrion’s footsteps approached behind her, steady and unhurried. Always steady, always calm—she could set the Pleroma on fire and he’d probably just tilt his head and ask if she thought that was the best course of action. He stopped a few paces behind her, his staff glowing faintly, the light coiling around it like a restless thought.

“You’re brooding,” he observed, his voice as flat as ever, though Kahina swore she heard the faintest smirk buried somewhere beneath the words.

She shot him a glance over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “I don’t brood. I reflect. Thoughtfully. Like a responsible adult.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding as if this was a perfectly reasonable distinction. “And does this ‘thoughtful reflection’ usually involve glaring at the horizon like it insulted your wings?”

Kahina turned back toward the shimmering light, her lips quirking into a faint, humorless smile. “The horizon deserves it,” she said. “Look at it. All that effort to shine, and for what? To pretend it isn’t cracking at the seams?”

Lyrion stepped up beside her, his golden eyes scanning the fractured expanse. He tilted his head slightly, considering her words. “You think it’s pretending?”

“Of course it is,” she shot back, her tone sharp. “The light doesn’t get to cry about being broken. It just… glows. Fakes it. Because if it stops, everything falls apart. Sound familiar?”

He didn’t answer right away. He rarely did. Lyrion’s silences were one of the many things about him that both infuriated and intrigued her. He had a way of waiting just long enough for her own thoughts to loop back on themselves, forcing her to question whether she wanted a reply at all.

Finally, he said, “Maybe it’s not pretending. Maybe it’s just… doing what it can.”

Kahina snorted, folding her arms across her chest. “That’s a very diplomatic way of saying it’s held together with spit and wishful thinking.”

“Sometimes that’s enough,” he replied, his tone maddeningly calm.

She glanced at him then, her eyes narrowing. “Are you always this irritatingly optimistic, or is it just to balance me out?”

His lips twitched—*barely*—but it was enough to tell her she wasn’t entirely wrong. “Someone has to be,” he said.

She rolled her eyes and looked away, her gaze drifting back to the horizon. The Pleroma’s light pulsed faintly, uneven but stubborn, as though it was daring the void to swallow it whole. It reminded her, uncomfortably, of herself.

“And what about you?” she asked after a moment, her voice softer now. “Do you think this is enough? The glowing, the faking? You really think the Pleroma can survive on stubbornness alone?”

Lyrion was quiet again, his staff glinting faintly as he shifted his weight. When he spoke, his voice was steady, but there was something heavier beneath it—something she couldn’t quite name.

“I think it has to,” he said. “Because if it doesn’t, neither do we.”

Kahina didn’t respond right away. She hated when he was right. It wasn’t that she disagreed with him—of course the Pleroma had to survive. Of course they had to keep holding it together. But that didn’t make it easier to stomach the fact that they were essentially patching up eternity with divine duct tape and hoping no one noticed.

She let out a sharp exhale, running a hand through her hair. “You ever think we’re just prolonging the inevitable?” she asked, her tone almost too light, as if the weight of the question could be ignored if she delivered it with enough sarcasm.

“Sometimes,” Lyrion admitted.

That surprised her. She turned to look at him fully, her eyes narrowing as she searched his face for any hint of doubt. But his expression was as calm as ever, his golden eyes fixed on the horizon. If there was fear in him, he didn’t show it.

“And?” she pressed.

“And we do it anyway,” he said simply.

Kahina laughed, short and sharp, the sound almost bitter. “Gods, you’re impossible,” she muttered.

“Possibly,” he said, and this time there was no mistaking the faint smirk on his lips.

She shook her head, turning away again, but she couldn’t stop the small smile that crept onto her face. It wasn’t much—not enough to drown out the weight pressing on her shoulders—but it was something.

The light of the Pleroma flickered again, faint and uneven, but it didn’t go out.

“Come on,” Lyrion said after a moment, his tone gentler now. “We should keep moving. The shards are stable for now, but that won’t last if we don’t figure out what’s causing the fractures.”

Kahina sighed but nodded, stretching her wings as she turned to follow him. The ache in her marked hand flared faintly, a cold reminder of the thing that still lingered somewhere out there, waiting. Watching.

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, falling into step beside him. “Let’s go save the light. Again. Because apparently, it can’t save itself.”

“It’s good at pretending, though,” Lyrion said, his voice light.

She shot him a sidelong glare but didn’t argue. The Pleroma was good at pretending. And so were they.

The cracks would keep spreading. The void would keep creeping in. And Kahina and Lyrion would keep holding the light together with nothing but willpower and wit.

It wasn’t much.

But it was enough.

For now.