CONTINUED 5

The council chamber hummed with that same old tune of endless, spiraling debates—a melody Lyrion knew too well. The Aeons drifted through their circular arguments, their radiant forms shifting faintly with each volley of opinion, their voices as hollow as the light they worshiped. It was a symphony of futility, a dance of glowing egos pretending to resolve what no one here was brave enough to name outright: the Pleroma was faltering.

And here was Sophia, seated among them like a weaver watching her loom, every thread of light and word somehow bending toward her fingers. She said little after their exchange—just enough to punctuate the discussions, to plant a suggestion here, a question there. She didn’t need to dominate the conversation; she let the others fill the air with their brilliance, their radiance. Sophia knew that power wasn’t in speaking louder—it was in listening better, in waiting for the moment when everyone else’s noise became her opportunity.

Lyrion leaned against his staff at the edge of the chamber, one wing partially unfurled, its silver-and-gold feathers catching the soft glow of the floor. He wasn’t part of the discussion—he never truly was. The Aeons saw him and Kahina as Barbelo’s tools, not her equals. Protectors, guardians, instruments. Always necessary, never welcome.

A flicker of light shot through the chamber—a shift in the air, so subtle that most wouldn’t have noticed it. But Lyrion felt it. His wings twitched slightly, his golden eyes narrowing as he turned toward the source. It came from Sophia’s side of the chamber, of course. A faint pulse, not visible, but tangible, like a vibration humming beneath the harmony of the room.

It was her, always her. She was doing something. Not obvious—never obvious—but something.

“Lyrion,” a voice called out, pulling his attention. Ahkariel again. The Aeon’s glow flared faintly, his tone polite but clipped, the way one might address an unruly apprentice. “You’ve been silent since your… concerns were raised. Surely you have more to offer than warnings.”

Lyrion straightened, his grip on his staff shifting as he let his gaze sweep over the room. They were all looking at him now—some curious, some annoyed, others merely waiting to see if he’d contribute anything worthwhile. The weight of their attention was familiar, like wearing an ill-fitted cloak.

“Warnings,” Lyrion repeated, his tone dry as old parchment. “Yes, well, those seem to be my specialty. And seeing as you’re all still here debating whether that storm was a ‘natural aberration’ or some cosmic hiccup, maybe you could use a few more.”

The chamber pulsed faintly with unease, the light rippling across the Aeons like a stone dropped in a still pond. Ahkariel tilted his head, his glow dimming slightly, the celestial equivalent of a frown. “The storm was contained,” he said, his tone sharp. “The Pleroma endures. There’s no need to exaggerate the threat.”

Exaggerate. Of course. Because why take a threat seriously when you could just dismiss it instead?

Lyrion let out a sharp exhale, his wings shifting behind him. “The storm wasn’t random,” he said, his voice cutting through the chamber’s hum. “It wasn’t some ‘void surge’ or a ‘fluctuation in the light’s resonance.’ It was deliberate. Controlled.”

That got their attention. The Aeons turned toward him more fully, their light pulsing in faint, uneven waves. Even Sophia glanced his way, her silver gaze flickering with what might have been interest—or amusement.

“Controlled?” another Aeon echoed, their voice smooth but skeptical. “By whom? The void? A shadow creature? Surely you’re not suggesting that—”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Lyrion cut in, his tone sharper now. “I’m telling you. The storm wasn’t just some external force. It was *designed.* Every pulse, every fracture—it was testing the Pleroma’s limits.”

The chamber fell into a tense silence, the glow of the columns dimming slightly as the weight of his words settled over the Aeons. Lyrion could feel their hesitation, their discomfort. They didn’t like being confronted with the idea that their precious light was vulnerable, that the realm they ruled wasn’t as unshakable as they pretended it was.

But Sophia… Sophia didn’t look uncomfortable at all. She leaned back slightly in her place, her silver light steady, her expression calm and unreadable. She wasn’t reacting to his accusation—she was studying it, as though it were a puzzle she was already halfway through solving.

“And who,” she said softly, breaking the silence, “would be capable of such a thing?”

Her words were gentle, almost thoughtful, but Lyrion heard the edge beneath them. A challenge, wrapped in silk. She wasn’t defending herself—she didn’t need to. She was putting the burden of proof on him, forcing him to draw the line between suspicion and certainty.

“Someone who knows the Pleroma better than the void,” Lyrion said, his voice cool as his gaze locked onto hers. “Someone who understands the light. Its rhythms, its weaknesses.”

Sophia smiled faintly, tilting her head just enough to make it seem like she was humoring him. “An interesting theory,” she said. “But if what you say is true, then this ‘someone’ would have to be… what, one of us?”

Her words rippled through the chamber, a deliberate spark thrown into the dry tinder of the Aeons’ egos. Lyrion could feel the shift immediately, the way the others straightened, their light flaring with faint indignation. The idea that one of them—an Aeon, an architect of creation—might have orchestrated the storm was almost too absurd to entertain.

Almost.

“Stranger things have happened,” Lyrion said, his tone even, though his grip on his staff tightened. “Or have we forgotten the fractures in the Veins? The whispers of shadow creeping closer to the light? You all sense it. The Pleroma isn’t as stable as you want to believe. And someone—*something*—is pushing it further.”

Ahkariel’s light flared again, his frustration barely contained. “You’re suggesting treachery among the Aeons,” he said, his voice cold. “Do you have proof? Or is this just another one of your—”

“It’s not treachery,” Sophia interjected, her tone soft but firm, her silver light flaring just enough to draw the room’s attention back to her. “It’s curiosity. A desire to understand the Pleroma’s limits, to see where it bends… and where it breaks.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, curling into every corner of the chamber. Lyrion’s jaw tightened as he stared at her, his golden eyes narrowing. She wasn’t admitting anything—not directly. But she was leading them, as she always did, steering the conversation just enough to shift the focus away from her and onto the idea itself.

And the Aeons, of course, were lapping it up.

“Curiosity,” Lyrion repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. “That’s what you’re calling it now?”

Sophia’s gaze flickered toward him, her smile faint but pointed. “Curiosity is not a crime, Lyrion. It’s how we grow. How we evolve.”

“Curiosity,” he snapped, his tone sharp, “is how you justify throwing storms at the Pleroma and leaving the rest of us to clean up the mess.”

The chamber pulsed faintly with unease, the light flickering as the tension between them thickened. Lyrion didn’t care. Let the Aeons squirm. Let them pretend they weren’t watching this exchange with rapt attention, their own suspicions brewing beneath their polished exteriors.

Sophia tilted her head again, her expression as calm as ever. “And if the Pleroma can’t withstand a storm,” she said softly, “then perhaps that’s something we need to know.”

Her words struck like a blade, precise and deliberate, cutting through the chamber’s harmony.

Lyrion exhaled sharply, his wings flaring behind him as he turned away. There was no winning this here. Not in this chamber, not with these Aeons. Not with Sophia.

“Just remember,” he said, his voice low but cutting, “that curiosity doesn’t excuse the consequences. If this breaks, it’s on you.”

He didn’t wait for her reply. He didn’t need to. Her silence was answer enough.

As he left the chamber, the light of the Pleroma felt heavier than ever, its harmony stretched thin, its fractures growing deeper.

Sophia wasn’t testing the Pleroma.

She was testing *all of them.*