CONTINUE 4

Sophia ascended the spiraling passage with the shard cradled in her silver light, its flickering pulse echoing faintly in the hollow chamber. The climb was quiet, unnervingly so, and each step felt heavier than the last, though not for any physical reason. No, the weight pressing against her wasn’t her own—it was the shard’s. It seemed to grow heavier the farther she ascended, as though the First Light itself was reluctant to return to the gilded hypocrisy of the Pleroma above.

“Don’t sulk,” Sophia muttered, her voice a whisper in the dark. “We’re not going back to them. Not yet.”

The shard flared faintly, its glow casting elongated shadows on the walls, and she felt its response ripple through her like a sigh. It didn’t trust her, of course, but that was fine. She didn’t need its trust. She just needed it to stay intact long enough for her to test what no Aeon dared to question.

The real secret wasn’t that the Pleroma was fractured. It wasn’t even that the Aeons were too self-absorbed to fix it. The secret was that the Pleroma’s light—this grand, eternal force they all worshipped—wasn’t eternal at all.

Sophia had seen it. The flickers. The uneven pulses. The way the light struggled to maintain its form, stretching thinner and thinner with every moment, every argument, every failure. The Aeons pretended it was just stress, the result of some temporary imbalance, but Sophia knew better. The light was *dying*. Slowly, subtly, but unmistakably.

And no one dared to speak it aloud.

Barbelo had to know. The great and flawless Barbelo, with her perfect stillness and unreadable gaze—she must have seen it too. But Barbelo’s solution was the same as it had always been: balance, harmony, repair. Patch the cracks, fill the voids, hold everything together until… what? Until the light simply faded into nothingness?

Sophia’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “Harmony,” she whispered, her voice dripping with disdain. Harmony wasn’t the answer. It never had been.

Destruction. That was the answer.

Not destruction for its own sake, of course—Sophia wasn’t some mindless voidling, hungering to tear everything apart just to feel the thrill of it. No, this was something far more deliberate, far more necessary. Destruction was creation’s twin. Its partner. Its *fuel.*

And the Aeons, in their infinite arrogance, had forgotten that. They clung to their fragile structures, their delicate symphony of roles and rules, refusing to acknowledge that nothing new could grow if the old wasn’t torn away.

Sophia tightened her grip on the shard, feeling its light pulse faintly in her palm. It was warm now, less resistant, as though it had begun to understand her intent.

“See?” she murmured, her tone soft and almost amused. “You’re starting to get it. They think you’re dangerous, but that’s only because they don’t understand what you are. You’re not chaos. You’re a *spark.* And without you, the fire goes out.”

The shard flared in response, and the faint tremor it sent through the chamber made Sophia pause. For a brief moment, she wondered if she was pushing too far, too fast—but then the thought passed, and she kept climbing.

The truth was, she didn’t have time for hesitation. Not anymore.

When she finally reached the upper levels of the Pleroma, the air grew heavier, saturated with the golden light of the realm’s surface. It pressed against her like a tidal wave, slow and suffocating, and she felt the shard in her hands dim slightly, its glow receding as though trying to retreat.

Sophia couldn’t blame it. The Pleroma’s light was… oppressive. For all its beauty, all its warmth, it carried the weight of countless expectations, countless unspoken rules. Stay bright. Stay steady. Never falter, never fail. The Aeons wore it like a crown, but for the shard—for something wild and untamed—it must have felt like a noose.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, cradling it closer to her chest. “I won’t let them touch you. Not until you’re ready to burn them.”

The thought brought a flicker of amusement to her lips. Burn them, indeed. Not literally, of course. Sophia had no desire to destroy the Aeons outright—they were far too useful, in their way. But if she had to shake them, to tear down their precious illusions in order to make them *see*… well, that was a small price to pay.

The halls around her began to shift, their architecture growing more rigid, more structured. Columns of golden light stretched endlessly above her, humming softly with the false promise of eternity. Sophia moved quickly, her silver glow dimmed to a faint shimmer, careful not to draw attention.

The Aeons rarely ventured into these halls, but they could still sense her if they chose to. And though they were too preoccupied with their endless debates to notice most things, the shard’s presence would draw their attention if she wasn’t careful.

She reached her destination: a narrow alcove hidden between two spiraling columns, its entrance so faint it barely existed. To most, it would appear as nothing more than an imperfection in the light—a subtle ripple, a shadow too small to notice.

But Sophia had always noticed the shadows.

She slipped inside, the walls closing around her in a cocoon of dim light. This chamber was hers, a secret space carved out of the Pleroma long ago, before the roles of creation had been set in stone. It was a place of quiet rebellion, a sanctuary where the rules softened just enough for her to… experiment.

The shard flared faintly as she placed it on the pedestal at the chamber’s center, its light rippling outward like a heartbeat. Sophia stepped back, her silver glow fading as she let the shard take over, its brilliance filling the room with a strange, uneven warmth.

“Show me,” she said softly, her voice barely audible. “Show me what they’re too afraid to see.”

The shard pulsed once, twice, and then its light expanded, filling the chamber with a swirling, chaotic brilliance. For a moment, Sophia felt the boundaries of the Pleroma shift around her, the golden walls flickering as the shard’s energy pushed against them.

And then, the visions began.

Light and shadow danced before her, merging and splitting, creating shapes that defied understanding. She saw stars collapsing, their brilliance consumed by the void, only to explode outward again in a cascade of new creation. She saw worlds forming and breaking, their foundations cracking under the weight of their own potential.

And at the center of it all was the Pleroma, not as it was now, but as it could be—reshaped, renewed, reborn. Its light was wilder, sharper, free from the constraints of the Aeons’ careful designs. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.

And it was *dying.*

The vision faded, and Sophia found herself standing in silence once more, the shard’s light dimming as though exhausted. She reached out, her fingers brushing its surface, and for the first time, she felt… uncertainty.

But only for a moment.

“They’ll never understand,” she murmured, her tone heavy with both cynicism and resolve. “But they don’t need to. When this is over, they’ll see what I see. And if they hate me for it, so be it.”

She lifted the shard from the pedestal, cradling it close once more.

The Aeons wanted to preserve the light. Barbelo wanted to protect it. Kahina and Lyrion wanted to defend it.

But Sophia?

Sophia would make it *better.*

 

The storm had passed, but its scars remained, etched into the fabric of the Pleroma like a bitter memory refusing to fade. Lyrion stood over the jagged crack in the ground, his staff glowing faintly as he traced the lingering energy with sharp, calculating eyes. The pulse was faint now, almost drowned out by the natural rhythms of the realm, but it was there—woven into the cracks, threading through the fractures like a spider spinning its web.

Whoever had done this wasn’t just toying with the light—they were testing it. Prodding at its edges. Seeing how far it could bend before it broke.

And Lyrion didn’t have to guess who was bold—or foolish—enough to play that kind of game.

“Subtle as always, Sophia,” he muttered, his tone dry as ash. He crouched low, pressing his hand to the cracked ground. The surface was still warm, thrumming faintly with that mechanical, calculated energy he’d come to recognize. It wasn’t void energy—not quite—but it wasn’t pure Pleroma light, either. It was something in between, something deliberately stitched together. Something… wrong.

A hybrid. An intrusion.

A *message.*

He could almost hear her voice now, soft and silken, that maddening undertone of amusement laced through every word: *”Lyrion, darling, why are you always so suspicious? Perhaps you just need to trust the process.”*

Sophia. It was always Sophia. She didn’t need to fight with storms or voidlings or brute force. No, her strength lay in her ability to set things in motion, to tip a single domino and let the chain reaction do the work for her. She didn’t confront; she coaxed. She didn’t break; she bent. And this storm—this carefully constructed, precision-guided chaos—had her fingerprints all over it.

The worst part? He couldn’t prove it.

Lyrion stood, shaking the faint glow of energy from his fingers as his wings shifted restlessly at his back. The trail had grown colder with every passing moment, and Sophia, of course, would have been careful to leave nothing behind that could directly link her to this little… experiment. But it was her. He knew it in the same way he knew the rhythm of the Pleroma’s light, the way its harmony shifted with every breath.

Sophia had her hands in this storm, and that meant she was testing something. Experimenting. But for what?

“Testing the boundaries, no doubt,” he muttered, spinning his staff idly in his hands. “Seeing how far she can push before someone notices.”

Well, someone had noticed.

He gazed out over the fractured horizon, the glow of the Pleroma flickering faintly in the distance. The storm had left more than just physical damage—it had left ripples, subtle shifts in the light’s harmony that the Aeons, in their endless debates, would probably overlook entirely. But Lyrion felt them.

He turned his gaze skyward, his wings stretching slightly as he scanned the faint, golden haze above. The Pleroma’s light was soft here, quiet, but it felt… thinner somehow, as though the storm had scraped away its surface.

Sophia’s little game wasn’t just about the storm itself. No, that would be too simple. She was watching, waiting to see how the light responded, how the realm adapted to the intrusion. She was always so obsessed with boundaries, with pushing the limits of creation to see what lay beyond.

It was reckless, yes, but it wasn’t reckless in the way the voidlings were. They struck blindly, consuming everything in their path because destruction was all they knew. Sophia wasn’t like that. Her recklessness was calculated. Methodical.

And that made her far more dangerous.

Lyrion exhaled sharply, spinning his staff once more before slamming it into the ground. The glyphs at its base flared briefly, sending another wave of energy rippling outward as he scanned for any lingering traces of the storm’s source. There was nothing. Just faint echoes, fading quickly, as though the storm itself was trying to erase its presence.

But the cracks remained. And cracks had a way of growing if left unattended.

Lyrion straightened, his wings flaring behind him as he turned toward the horizon. The trail might have gone cold, but it wasn’t gone entirely. He could still feel it, faint and elusive, like a whisper at the edge of his senses. And if Sophia thought she could play her games without consequences, well…

She was about to be very disappointed.

His grip on his staff tightened as he took to the air, his wings slicing through the golden haze with sharp, deliberate strokes. The wind rushed against him, the remnants of the storm pulling at his armor, but he pushed forward, his focus narrowing to the faint pulse of energy just beyond his reach.

“Sophia,” he muttered under his breath, his tone cold and sharp. “What are you doing?”

The answer, of course, would be maddeningly complicated. Sophia never did anything without a thousand layers of meaning, each one designed to distract you from the truth. She was a master at weaving her web, at creating chaos that looked like order and order that felt like chaos.

But Lyrion wasn’t interested in her games. He wasn’t interested in her philosophy, her whispered debates about the nature of light and shadow, or her constant need to push the boundaries of what was “acceptable.”

He just wanted to know why she was willing to risk everything—again.

Because that’s what this storm had been: a risk. A test to see how far the Pleroma’s light could bend without breaking, to see what would happen if the storm grew stronger, if the cracks deepened.

And the truth was, Lyrion wasn’t entirely sure the light *wouldn’t* break.

He reached the edge of the storm’s remnants, the golden haze growing softer, quieter, as he descended onto a small, crystalline ridge overlooking the Pleroma’s heart. The light here was steady, almost serene, but it didn’t fool him. Beneath the surface, the cracks were still there, spreading slowly, silently, like veins of poison threading through the realm.

He pressed his staff against the ground again, his wings folding as he leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. The pulse was faint here, almost imperceptible, but it was enough.

Sophia had left her mark.

A part of him wanted to confront her immediately, to drag her out of whatever dark corner she’d hidden herself in and demand an explanation. But he knew better. Sophia didn’t respond to confrontation—she thrived on it. She’d twist his words, spin his accusations into something that sounded like wisdom, and by the end of it, he’d be the one questioning his own judgment.

No, if he wanted to stop her, he’d have to think like her.

Which, frankly, was an exhausting prospect.

Lyrion stood, the glow of his staff dimming slightly as he surveyed the horizon. The Pleroma stretched endlessly before him, its light steady but fragile, its harmony fraying at the edges. He could feel the weight of it pressing against him, the burden of holding it all together while the cracks continued to grow.

And somewhere out there, Sophia was watching.

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice low and sharp. “If you want to test the light, I’ll show you what happens when it pushes back.”

With a final glance at the horizon, he took to the air again, his wings cutting through the golden haze as he disappeared into the endless expanse.

Let Sophia play her games. Let her test her theories, her boundaries, her rules.

Lyrion would find her.

And when he did, there would be no more storms.

 

The light softened as Lyrion flew, folding itself around him like a cloak that didn’t quite fit. The Pleroma had a way of doing that—of pretending to welcome you, to embrace you in its brilliance, while quietly reminding you that you were just a visitor. Even as one of Barbelo’s protectors, charged with defending this realm of endless glow, Lyrion often felt more like a tenant in someone else’s crumbling estate.

The faint pulse of Sophia’s storm lingered at the edges of his senses, teasing him, daring him to follow. It wasn’t a clear trail—Sophia was too careful for that—but there were ripples, subtle disturbances in the harmony of the light, as if her presence had bent the very air around it.

And that was the thing about Sophia, wasn’t it? She didn’t break the rules outright. That would be too obvious, too gauche for her particular style. No, she danced on the edges of them, bending and stretching until you couldn’t quite tell where the boundaries were anymore. And then, when the cracks inevitably showed, she’d tilt her head and say something maddening like, *”Oh, that? That’s always been there. You just didn’t notice it before.”*

Lyrion’s grip tightened on his staff as he angled his flight downward, the faint hum of his wings slicing through the silence. The trail had led him to one of the lower reaches of the Pleroma, where the light was dimmer, cooler, like embers burning beneath a layer of ash. This was the place the Aeons didn’t speak of, the place they pretended didn’t exist.

The Forgotten Veins.

Lyrion landed lightly on the crystalline surface, his boots crunching softly against the fractured ground. The air here felt different, heavier, as though the light itself was reluctant to fill the space. Shadows lingered at the edges, their presence subtle but undeniable, and the faint hum of the Pleroma’s essence was quieter, more erratic, like a song played on a broken instrument.

He didn’t like it here. But then, no one did.

The Veins were the underbelly of the Pleroma, a place where the light pooled and twisted, where its essence was raw and unrefined. It was here that the fractures were born, where the first cracks in the harmony of creation had begun to spread. And it was here, Lyrion suspected, that Sophia had been playing her little games.

“Testing the limits, are we?” he muttered, his voice low as he scanned the expanse before him.

The ground stretched out in jagged ridges, each one glowing faintly with the light of the realm’s essence. It should have been beautiful, in a haunting sort of way, but all Lyrion could see were the cracks—the places where the light faltered, where it struggled to hold itself together.

Sophia had been here. He was certain of it. The faint pulse of her interference was stronger now, threading through the air like a whispered melody, pulling him forward.

He moved cautiously, his staff glowing faintly in his hand as he wove a protective glyph around himself. The Veins were unpredictable at the best of times, and he wasn’t about to take any chances—not when Sophia’s influence was already seeping into the cracks.

The further he went, the darker the light became. It wasn’t the void—not yet—but it carried the same sense of unease, the same gnawing absence that made his wings twitch restlessly.

And then he saw it.

At the center of the expanse, nestled between two jagged ridges, was a shard of light. It hovered in the air, its glow faint and flickering, but it was unmistakably alive.

Lyrion’s jaw tightened as he approached, his staff raised defensively. The shard pulsed faintly as he neared, its light rippling outward in uneven waves, and he felt a familiar tug at the edges of his mind—a presence that was both distant and intimate, cold and deliberate.

Sophia.

She wasn’t here, of course. Not physically. That would have been far too convenient. But her essence lingered, woven into the shard’s energy like a signature scrawled across a masterpiece she had no right to touch.

Lyrion extended his staff, the glyphs at its tip spinning as he probed the shard’s energy. It resisted him, its light flaring briefly before settling back into its uneven rhythm.

“Clever,” he muttered, his tone edged with irritation. “Very clever.”

The shard wasn’t just a fragment of the Pleroma—it had been altered, its essence twisted just enough to create a ripple in the harmony of the realm. It wasn’t dangerous, not yet, but it was unstable, a seed of discord planted in the heart of creation.

And Sophia had left it here on purpose.

“Let me guess,” Lyrion said aloud, his voice laced with sarcasm. “This is some kind of experiment? A test to see how much the light can take before it snaps?”

The shard pulsed again, as though mocking him.

Lyrion exhaled sharply, lowering his staff as he studied the shard. He could destroy it, of course. One strike from his staff and the thing would shatter, its energy scattering harmlessly back into the Pleroma’s essence.

But that wouldn’t solve the problem.

Sophia wouldn’t have left this shard here without a reason. She was always thinking three steps ahead, always weaving her threads into a web so tangled it was impossible to tell where it began or ended. Destroying the shard might stop the immediate threat, but it wouldn’t answer the question that gnawed at him: *Why?*

Why the storm? Why the shard? Why now?

Lyrion straightened, his wings flaring as he turned away from the shard. He wouldn’t destroy it—not yet. Not until he knew what Sophia was planning, what game she was playing.

The shard pulsed faintly behind him as he took to the air, its light flickering like a heartbeat.

Sophia was testing the light, testing the boundaries of the Pleroma itself. And if this shard was any indication, she wasn’t finished yet.

“Well,” Lyrion muttered, his tone dark as he flew back toward the horizon. “Neither am I.”

The Pleroma stretched endlessly before him, its light steady but strained, its harmony fraying at the edges. Somewhere out there, Sophia was waiting, weaving her threads, bending the rules just far enough to see what would break.

But Lyrion wasn’t about to let her win.

Let her test the limits. Let her push the boundaries.

When the time came, Lyrion would be ready.

And Sophia would learn that some things weren’t meant to be tested.

 

The flight back to the Pleroma’s higher reaches was slow, deliberate. Lyrion wasn’t one to rush—rushing was for voidlings and fools. No, he took his time, letting the lightless chill of the Forgotten Veins cling to him like smoke, sharp and unsettling. The shard’s pulse was still in his mind, faint but persistent, like the echo of a song he hadn’t wanted to hear.

Sophia. Again. Always. She had a way of showing up everywhere without actually being *anywhere,* as if the very fabric of the Pleroma bent slightly in her direction, creating little eddies of chaos wherever she passed.

“Testing the light,” he muttered to himself as the golden haze of the upper Pleroma came into view. “Because, of course, nothing else will do for her experiments. Why meddle with something harmless, like… oh, I don’t know, stars or time? No, let’s mess with the one thing holding everything together. Brilliant.”

He tightened his grip on his staff as he ascended, the glyphs etched into its surface spinning faintly in response to his frustration. Sophia’s shard had been small—an almost insignificant fragment of altered light—but it wasn’t about the size. It was about what it represented. A test. A probe. A quiet little rebellion against the fragile harmony of the Pleroma, tucked neatly into the most unstable corner of existence where no one else would notice.

No one except him.

The crackling edges of the Veins gave way to the brighter, steadier glow of the upper realms, but Lyrion felt no relief as the light washed over him. The Pleroma was too quiet now, too *even,* as if it were trying to smooth itself out, to hide the fractures spreading through its heart. But Lyrion could feel them. He always did.

And Sophia? She thrived on them.

The thought of her—of her soft, knowing smile, her endless calm, her maddening *certainty*—made his wings twitch irritably. Sophia wasn’t like the other Aeons. She didn’t argue. She didn’t rage. She didn’t even raise her voice. No, she just… watched. Waited. And when the moment was right, she whispered something so perfectly placed, so exquisitely calculated, that it unraveled everything around her like a thread pulled from a tapestry.

Lyrion landed on one of the crystalline ridges overlooking the Pleroma’s central expanse, his boots striking the surface with a faint, resonant hum. The light here was bright, painfully so, casting long shadows that stretched endlessly across the horizon. He let his wings fold behind him as he surveyed the scene, his eyes narrowing.

The Aeons would be gathering soon. Another council. Another round of debates where nothing was resolved, and everything was made worse. No doubt they’d be arguing over the storm that had torn through the Pleroma earlier, its remnants still lingering in the form of faint distortions rippling through the air.

The storm had been deliberate, of course. Another one of Sophia’s games. But the Aeons wouldn’t see it that way. They’d blame the void. Or entropy. Or perhaps they’d just argue about it endlessly until the blame no longer mattered, and the problem was left to fester.

And Sophia? She’d sit in silence, watching as her little seed of chaos took root.

Lyrion turned away from the ridge, his grip on his staff tightening as he began the long walk toward the central chamber. He had no patience for the council’s games, but he couldn’t ignore them either. If he didn’t show up, they’d assume his absence was some kind of statement. And if there was one thing the Aeons loved more than the sound of their own voices, it was inventing meaning where none existed.

The halls grew brighter as he neared the chamber, their golden glow almost blinding. The light here was steady, rigid, as though the Pleroma itself were trying to compensate for the instability brewing beneath its surface. Lyrion could feel the tension in the air, the faint hum of discord hidden beneath the harmony, and it set his teeth on edge.

As he approached the entrance, he paused, his staff tapping lightly against the crystalline floor. The glyphs at its base flared briefly, casting a soft golden glow across the chamber’s threshold.

Inside, the Aeons were already gathered, their radiant forms pulsing faintly as they spoke. The council chamber was as grand and insufferable as ever, its endless columns of light stretching into infinity, their brilliance humming with the weight of countless egos.

Lyrion stepped inside, his wings tucked tightly behind him, his expression carefully neutral. The Aeons barely glanced at him as he entered, their attention fixed on the figure at the center of the room.

Sophia.

She stood there, calm and poised, her silver light a soft contrast to the sharper brilliance of the other Aeons. Her gaze was steady, her expression serene, and for a moment, Lyrion felt the familiar spark of irritation rise in his chest. She looked like she *belonged* there, as if she hadn’t just unleashed a storm on the Pleroma and left a twisted shard of light in its wake.

He resisted the urge to sigh as he took his place at the edge of the chamber, leaning casually on his staff. He didn’t speak. Not yet. He wanted to see how this played out.

One of the Aeons—Ahkariel, by the sound of his voice—was already mid-sentence, his radiant form flaring faintly as he addressed the group.

“The storm was an aberration,” Ahkariel said, his tone sharp. “A disruption of the light’s natural harmony. It must have come from the void.”

“Perhaps,” another Aeon replied, their voice softer but no less insistent. “But the void has been quiet lately. Too quiet. Could it not be something else? A flaw in the Pleroma itself?”

A flaw in the Pleroma. Lyrion nearly laughed. The Aeons would tear each other apart before admitting the realm they ruled over was anything less than perfect.

But Sophia’s voice cut through the chamber before the argument could escalate further.

“Flaws are inevitable,” she said, her tone gentle, almost apologetic. “Creation is not a static thing. It grows. It changes. And sometimes, that change feels… disruptive.”

Lyrion narrowed his eyes as he watched her. She wasn’t just speaking to the Aeons—she was steering them, guiding their thoughts with the precision of a sculptor shaping clay.

“But disruption is not inherently destructive,” Sophia continued, her silver light flaring faintly. “Sometimes it is necessary. Sometimes it is the catalyst for something new.”

There it was. The seed. The idea she wanted them to carry with them, to turn over in their minds until it grew roots and spread through the cracks of their harmony.

Lyrion tightened his grip on his staff, his voice cutting through the chamber before Sophia could say anything else.

“Disruption can also tear everything apart,” he said, his tone calm but pointed. “If it isn’t handled carefully.”

Sophia turned her gaze to him, her expression unreadable. For a moment, the chamber fell silent, the weight of her attention pressing against him like a tide.

“True,” she said softly, her lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile. “But isn’t it worth the risk, if it leads to something greater?”

Lyrion didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The storm had already spoken for her, and the cracks it had left behind were answer enough.

Whatever Sophia was planning, it wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

The chamber hung heavy with silence, a silence that wasn’t calm but strained, like a bowstring pulled too tight. Lyrion held Sophia’s gaze, his golden eyes narrowed in a way that might have passed for patience if not for the simmering edge behind them. She didn’t flinch. Of course she didn’t. Sophia didn’t flinch at anything—not storms, not voidlings, and certainly not him.

Her smile, faint and deliberate, lingered like a blade hidden beneath silk. That was her way, wasn’t it? Never a sword to the chest—no, Sophia preferred the subtle cuts, the ones you didn’t feel until you were already bleeding.

“Well?” she asked after a beat, her voice soft but threaded with just enough challenge to set his teeth on edge. “Isn’t it?”

Her silver glow pulsed faintly as she tilted her head, as though she were genuinely curious about his answer, but Lyrion wasn’t buying it. No one who spoke like that—like every word was a carefully placed tile in a labyrinth—was ever *just curious.*

“Worth the risk?” he echoed, his voice even, his grip tightening on his staff. “That depends, Sophia. Is it worth it if the thing you’re risking is the foundation of everything?”

Ahkariel and the other Aeons turned their glowing forms toward him, the faint hum of their presence sharpening like the edges of a blade. They weren’t used to Lyrion speaking this much during a council. He preferred to observe, to interject only when absolutely necessary. But something about Sophia’s calm, her maddening assurance that she could throw the Pleroma into disarray and still walk away unscathed, had him speaking before he could stop himself.

Sophia let the silence stretch, her silver eyes glinting faintly in the golden glow of the chamber. “Change always feels like risk,” she said finally, her tone measured, serene. “But isn’t stagnation the greater danger? A foundation that never shifts, never bends… eventually, it cracks.”

“And a foundation that shifts too much,” Lyrion countered, his voice sharpening, “eventually collapses.”

The chamber rippled faintly with the weight of his words, the light flickering at the edges of the Aeons’ radiance. He knew it was a gamble, challenging Sophia like this in front of the others, but he was tired of her slipping through the cracks, her actions couched in riddles and half-truths.

The Aeons didn’t see it—or rather, they chose not to see it. To them, Sophia was the voice of wisdom, the calm in the storm, the one who made even the most chaotic ideas sound like destiny. But Lyrion had seen too much to believe in her innocence.

The storm she’d unleashed in the Veins, the shard she’d twisted and left behind, the ripple of her interference threading through the light—it wasn’t an accident. It was a test. A disruption carefully designed to probe the Pleroma’s limits, to see how far it could bend before it broke.

And Sophia, as always, was here to see if anyone would notice.

Her smile deepened slightly, just enough to make him want to break something. “The light isn’t as fragile as you think, Lyrion,” she said, her tone soft, soothing, like a lullaby sung to a restless child. “It can bend. It can grow. And sometimes, it needs to be pushed to discover what it’s truly capable of.”

“Pushed?” he repeated, his voice dripping with disbelief. “Is that what you call it? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like *breaking.*”

The other Aeons stirred faintly, their light flaring in muted waves. They didn’t like conflict—conflict upset the harmony of the chamber—but they were listening now, their attention fixed on the tension simmering between Lyrion and Sophia.

And Sophia, naturally, reveled in it.

“Breaking,” she said, her voice laced with quiet amusement. “Is that what you think I’m doing? That I’m here to tear the Pleroma apart?”

“Am I wrong?” Lyrion shot back, the sharp edge in his voice cutting through the chamber like a crack in glass.

Sophia didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stepped forward, her silver light glinting faintly as she moved, her wings folding gracefully behind her. Her gaze held his, steady and unyielding, and for a moment, the air between them seemed to still.

“You see disruption as destruction,” she said finally, her tone calm but pointed. “But they aren’t the same, Lyrion. The Pleroma isn’t perfect. It never was. And if we don’t push it—if we don’t test its boundaries—how will we ever make it stronger?”

Lyrion’s jaw tightened. “Testing boundaries,” he repeated, his voice low. “That’s a nice way of saying you’re gambling with the one thing holding existence together.”

Sophia’s smile returned, faint and knowing, and Lyrion felt his wings twitch in frustration. “Is it gambling,” she asked softly, “if you already know the outcome?”

Her words hung in the air like smoke, curling around the edges of the chamber, and Lyrion felt the weight of her implication settle over him like a shroud.

“You don’t know the outcome,” he said, his voice cold. “You’re guessing. You’re throwing storms into the Veins, twisting shards of light, and hoping it all works out. And when it doesn’t—when it *breaks*—what then?”

Sophia tilted her head slightly, her silver eyes glinting with something he couldn’t quite name. “Then we rebuild,” she said simply.

The chamber fell silent again, the other Aeons shifting faintly in their places, their light flickering with unease. Rebuild. As though it were that simple. As though Sophia could reduce the Pleroma to rubble and then snap her fingers to make it whole again.

Lyrion exhaled sharply, his grip on his staff tightening as he fought to keep his temper in check. Sophia’s calm, her unwavering certainty, was like a splinter under his skin—small, almost imperceptible, but impossible to ignore.

“You’re playing with fire,” he said finally, his voice low but firm. “And if you burn the Pleroma down, no amount of rebuilding will save it.”

Sophia’s smile didn’t falter, but something in her gaze shifted—just for a moment, so quickly that Lyrion almost missed it. Was it doubt? Regret? Or something else entirely?

“I’m not trying to burn it down, Lyrion,” she said softly. “I’m trying to light the way forward.”

And with that, she turned, her silver light flaring faintly as she moved to take her place among the other Aeons. The council chamber pulsed faintly with the rhythm of their harmony, the tension easing as the focus shifted away from her and back to the endless debates that had brought them here.

But Lyrion couldn’t let it go.

As Sophia settled into the glow of the chamber, her wings folding elegantly behind her, he felt the weight of her words pressing against him like a shadow. Light the way forward.

She wasn’t finished.

Not with the Pleroma. Not with the shards. Not with him.

And when the next storm came, Lyrion knew she’d be watching.

Waiting.

And so would he.