0.2 - Ovum

In the golden hush of a setting sun, arcane formulations shimmered into being—an equation briefly etched across reality’s surface. Circular runes spun against the horizon, their light bending air and sea alike. From within that luminous boundary, two figures emerged—unchanged, untouched, as if the crystalline, monolithic halls of Nox Caelum had simply turned them out into the open air.

Proxima stepped forward from the veil, a certain thistle-haired companion close behind as the last traces of intent in the spell that had brought them forth flickered out.
"It’s been a while, even for me," she beamed. "Lyra… welcome to Ovum."

With theatrical flourish, Proxima dipped into a shallow bow, hands sweeping wide as if presenting the entire horizon itself.
A single golden eye flicked open on her impish face, gauging her subordinate’s reaction with barely concealed anticipation.

To her horror, Lyra stood as still and unreadable as ever, her tone perfectly flat.
"It’s… bigger than I thought it would be."

If Proxima had been of strictly biological origin, her jaw might have unhinged then and there.
The youngest of their kind—bright, curious, full of untapped wonder—and this was all she had to say?

Proxima straightened, lips parted in disbelief.
"It’s bigger, huh? Yes, you could say that…" Her hands flared again toward the vast, glittering expanse of Ovum’s horizon. "…But is that all?"

Lyra pursed her lips for just a moment.
"Yes," she answered without hesitation, her tone as flat as the sea below them. "This is exactly how it has been shown to me in our observations."

Proxima could have died on the spot, raising a hand to her forehead as if struck by a mortal wound, her entire posture collapsing into an exaggerated sigh of despair.
"Tragic," she muttered. "All this beauty wasted on a dutiful mind."

But when she turned back to Lyra—
She was gone.
"Eh?"

A few hundred feet below, Lyra hovered just above the water’s surface, perfectly balanced atop the air itself, her pale hair catching the last light of the setting sun. Her storm-colored eyes locked onto the darting shadows beneath the surface, and with measured curiosity, she dipped a single finger through the delicate barrier of the sea.

Proxima began to descend after her, fully prepared to deliver a well-earned scolding for disappearing like that when—

"Ah!"

A small, silvery fish—wide-eyed and flapping wildly—had latched onto Lyra’s delicate finger. She lifted it from the water, not with her usual deadpan calm, but with genuine horror twisting her perfect features.

Her storm-colored eyes flicked to Proxima, shining with the unmistakable look of someone silently begging for rescue. Before a single word left her lips, a raw, instinctive plea hung unspoken between them, impossible to miss:
Help—what do I do?!

"Oh, this is—" Proxima’s eyes twinkled with impish delight. "—exceptional."

Lyra seemed to resign herself to a slow and tragic death by nibbling when Proxima’s fingers curled gently around her beleaguered wrist. Her golden eyes gleamed with mischief.
"Ready—steady—go!"

With a harmless but deceptively precise flick of her arm, Proxima liberated Lyra from her tiny assailant. The fish plopped back into the sea with a comical splash, vanishing beneath the surface to undoubtedly bite again another day.

Proxima watched Lyra’s delicate study of the water, half-expecting to be swarmed by enemy marine life, her lips curling back into a mischievous grin.
"Oh, don’t get so lost in thought. We’re here on a mission, remember?" she teased, kneeling beside her and—without warning—flicking a sharp splash of cold seawater directly into Lyra’s face.

Lyra blinked, droplets clinging to her lashes. Her gaze turned upward with perfect, expressionless calm.
"Countermeasure prepared," she stated flatly, drawing her finger towards Proxima’s face as if she held some invisible weapon.

Proxima’s eyes widened, a flash of realization dawning far too late.
"Wait—Lyra, that’s not—"

A sudden glyph spun into being beneath Lyra’s feet, lines of pale blue light tracing complex patterns across the air itself.
"Aqua Subsidium: Cascata," she intoned, utterly deadpan.

The ocean responded immediately.
A perfectly formed wave—far larger than necessary—rose from the sea with elegant, terrifying grace… and collapsed directly over Proxima’s head.

As the water settled and the last cascade of droplets rained down, Proxima stood dripping, her short golden hair plastered to her face.
She pushed her wet bangs back, sighed dramatically, and muttered through the dripping chaos.
"Okay. Yeah. I deserved that."

For Proxima’s part, the very air seemed to respond to her presence. Her Anima flared, and Aetheric intent wove itself around her in a towering, warm updraft. In a breath, the moisture fled from her clothing and hair, steam curling off her shoulders as if the concept of being wet itself had bowed to her will.

In no time at all, she stood pristine once more—radiant, untouchable.

"I thought you were the non-violent type. Sheesh," Proxima teased, wringing the last bit of drama from her perfectly restored appearance.

Lyra’s ever-stoic face remained a flawless mask, but somehow, her irritation radiated outward like a pressure wave.
"Is there a violent type of Machina?" she asked, knowing full well no answer would come.

Her eyes returned to the sea, the question left unanswered and already forgotten.
"You initiated hostilities first," she concluded flatly.

Proxima nodded in mock resignation. "Yes, ma’am."

Lyra’s eyes drifted upward toward the boundless sky.
"Well, we should get to work—"

"Shh."

Proxima cut her off with a single finger pressed lightly to her lips, tilting her head toward the water’s surface.

Beneath the shimmering plane, a vast school of fish swirled in elegant, spiraling formations. They darted above and behind, through sea-fauna and coral, their scales catching the last golden light of the blazing sunset, refracting it back in waves of silver and pale blue—like a constellation scattered across the sea.

"Your friends are back," Proxima whispered, her voice unusually soft.

For once, Lyra said nothing.
She simply watched—storm-colored eyes reflecting a sky set ablaze, the sea mirroring a thousand tiny suns beneath her feet.

Moments like this didn’t appear in Nox Caelum’s observation reports. There were no metrics for it. No equations to measure the way something so small could stir the heart.

Proxima let her gaze drift sideways, a faint, knowing smile tracing her lips.
"This is why you have to see it for yourself," she said quietly, almost a whisper. "Some things can’t be understood from a distance."

The dull grey-white of Lyra’s eyes seemed to brighten for just a moment, her previously bitten finger drifting back toward the water’s edge without her even realizing it.
"They’ll bite you again, you know," Proxima teased softly.

"Ah..." Lyra tensed, her finger immediately pulling back.

She locked eyes with Proxima, and after a long, silent beat, they both shared a brief, dry laugh—small and fleeting, but undeniably real.

The laughter faded, but a strange softness lingered in Lyra’s expression as she looked back toward the sea.

Her eyes followed the swirling school of fish, their delicate bodies weaving in and out of the sun-dappled currents. She tilted her head slightly, the faintest hint of curiosity blooming across her normally impassive features.
"They… are pleasing to observe," she said at last, her voice unusually gentle.

Proxima blinked. "Pleasing?"

Lyra’s eyes never left the glittering silhouettes beneath the waves.
"Attractive in shape. Small. Predictable. Harmonious in movement. It is… satisfying."

She hesitated, as if sorting through data files for a more appropriate term.
"I believe this is… what you would call… cute?"

Proxima’s brow lifted. Of all the possible outcomes of this little adventure, Lyra developing an emotional attachment to the fish had not been on the list.

"Cute," she repeated, as if tasting the word. "This. This here… is an unexpected development. I’ll have to log this for continued reference."

She caught herself mid-analysis and gave Lyra a sideways glance.
"They did bite you, remember?"

Lyra responded immediately, her eyes still entranced by the swirling shapes beneath the waves.
"Ah yes. I’ve decided that’s irrelevant."

And thus, Lyra was introduced to Ovum.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________

The last of the fish scattered as the sun dipped below the horizon, their silvered forms vanishing into the deep like fallen stars swallowed by the dark.

Proxima stood silently beside Lyra, watching the colors of the sky fade to softer, colder hues.

"It tried to bite me," Lyra said suddenly, her voice low and thoughtful. "It’s a bit sad. Living things… killing each other for sustenance. Don’t you think so?"

"Spoken like a star that’s never left the night sky," Proxima replied softly, her gaze lingering where the fish had disappeared.

"Machina like you and I… we only need Aether to survive. It flows through all things—endless, unseen, waiting. We can eat, if we wish, but it’s a choice. A pleasure. A luxury."

She turned her eyes to Lyra, a faint melancholy tugging at the corners of her smile.

"But the things down here—these fish, the beasts of the land… even the people—they have no such privilege. Their survival is a war fought with hunger and fear. Life demands a price from them, and sometimes the only currency left is the life of another."

She exhaled quietly, the wind catching the last warmth of the fading day.

"Even their lives—creature, beast, or man—are just a fleeting flash to us," she murmured, her smile softening as if in apology.
"It’s cruel, yes. But… it’s also beautiful, isn’t it? The lengths living things will go… just to see another dawn."

The last light of day slipped beyond the horizon, and for a moment, neither of them spoke—two timeless beings standing still as the world turned toward night.

Proxima nodded faintly, as if affirming something to herself.
"Humanity, huh? Even if we look just like them, we couldn’t be further apart."

She gestured toward the sky, her voice lighter than the unease settling behind her golden eyes.
"Come on. We’ve got work to do."

Lyra nodded silently, but her storm-colored eyes lingered on the ocean for just a moment longer, as if reluctant to leave something newly understood behind.

With a quiet hum of Aether, they both ascended, the sea falling away beneath their feet as the horizon stretched endlessly before them.

For a time, they floated in quiet observation above the Moonwharf. The wind grew colder here; the air held a heaviness that neither of them could ignore.

Above, the clouds gathered in unnatural formations, curling in layered spirals like an unseen hand was winding them tight. The colors of the sky, once radiant, dulled to a strange, leaden hue.

"An unusual pressure gradient," Lyra noted quietly, scanning the readings floating in luminous sigils around her fingertips.

"It’s probably nothing," Proxima said, waving a hand as if dismissing the tension itself. "The Frame hasn’t flagged it yet. We’ll finish the scans and be back before long."

Despite her casual words, she found her gaze lingering on the horizon a little longer than usual. The sea below, usually alive with movement, had fallen still—eerily so. Not a single ripple disturbed its glassy surface. As if all things—above and below—were waiting for something.

The hush between them stretched longer than it should have. Proxima found her thoughts drifting back to the simplicity of their earlier exchange—Lyra’s small laugh, the fleeting brightness in her storm-colored eyes. It felt absurdly distant now, like a half-remembered dream.

"Well… it was fun at least," she muttered under her breath.

Lyra tilted her head slightly at the comment but said nothing. Her attention remained locked on the sigils before her, their readings flickering with growing instability. A thin line formed between her brows—barely perceptible, but there all the same.

A sharp pulse ran through the air. Subtle, but undeniable. Both Machina felt it vibrate through their cores.

"That wasn’t atmospheric," Proxima muttered, her golden eyes narrowing. "That was… something else."

Lyra’s scanner flared softly, sigils rearranging as numbers flickered in sharp red contrast. A distant vibration resonated through the air, the kind that couldn’t be heard—only felt.

"Aether harmonics remain unstable," she reported, her voice lower now, less clinical. "Resonance intensity has reached eighty-seven percent… and climbing."

Proxima gave a slow, uneasy nod. "Still rising faster than projected."

Lyra’s eyes drifted toward the dense cloud formations swirling above the Moonwharf, watching as lightning crawled through them—violet arcs spiraling across the sky with unnatural precision.

"An Aether storm?" Lyra asked, her voice calm but quieter now, edged with a faint uncertainty she didn’t often display.

Proxima chuckled faintly and shook her head. "Not surprising. With levels like these, I imagine they’re quite common over this area." She turned to flash Lyra a confident grin. "Perfectly normal for something completely abnormal."

They hung there for a moment longer, suspended in the charged stillness. A strange vertigo crept into the back of Proxima’s mind, a sensation she hadn’t felt in centuries. It was as though reality itself was tilting slightly off-axis.

"Do you feel that?" she asked quietly.

Lyra nodded. "Field tension. Reality is… straining."

Another pulse, stronger this time, rippled through the atmosphere—silent, but felt deep in their frames, as if the world itself had just stumbled over an unseen step.

Far below, the sea began to churn without wind. The water itself seemed to draw inward, pulled toward some unseen gravity. A low, resonant hum followed—neither sound nor vibration, but something in between, deep enough to settle unease into the bones.

"Lyra… stay close." Proxima’s tone had lost all traces of playfulness. Her hands flexed at her sides, gathering ambient Aether with practiced ease.

Proxima finally let the edge of concern slip through her voice.
"Alright… enough field work. Call it in before this spirals any further. Have the Frame initiate disaster relief protocols. Prepare for evacuation."

A dry, almost bitter smile tugged at her lips.
"So much for a year, huh?"

Lyra’s fingers worked through the glowing sigils, sending the high-priority directive across the Aetherframe network. But even as she moved, the scanner’s warnings grew sharper, faster—blaring alarms that had no space between them now.

Her eyes widened by a fraction.
"Lady Proxima… response from Nox Caelum is delayed. Transmission interference increasing—field resonance is breaching acceptable containment thresholds. We need to go to Moonwharf; we can help the residents prepare for—"

Proxima’s lips parted, an uncharacteristic breath catching in her throat.
"…We’re too late."

Lyra’s scanner let out a final, unbroken chime. The display lights flared from pale blue directly to a dire crimson. Her calm facade broke for the first time, her voice brittle with the weight of undeniable fact.

"Lady Proxima! Field resonance has breached containment thresholds. Ninety-five percent—no—ninety-seven. Manifestation is imminent!"

Proxima’s eyes sharpened, every ounce of her being snapping to focus.
"That’s… too fast." She turned sharply. "Elevation now. Get as much distance as you can!"

And then—

The sky above the Moonwharf split open.

A single, impossible shape began to form at the storm’s heart—an eye of absolute absence, a void that glared back at the world with nothingness made manifest. It shone blacker than the darkest night, a radiant anti-light that seemed to devour color and hope alike.

Lyra’s voice cut through the rising static, final and cold.
"Manifestation… confirmed."

And just like that, the world began to unravel.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________—This is the end. A horrifying light.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

[Bonus Lore Fragment]

The Aetheric Circuit

Aether

“The current of all things.”

Aether is the omnipresent life-force that flows through the world of Ovum — in the air, the sea, the stones, the soul. It is not matter, nor energy, but intent made manifest. Aether responds to will and belief, shaping reality according to the desires of those who wield it. All magic, supernatural phenomena, and metaphysical forces are made possible through Aether manipulation. It binds the world together, allowing thoughts to become miracles.

Anima

“The flame within the vessel.”

Anima is the portion of Aether that resides inside a soul — a deeply personal, regenerative core that fuels one's ability to command Aether. It is present at conception and birth. It is what separates the sentient from the instinctual. Without Anima, there can be no spellcraft, no willpower over the world, no echo of self. Anima is born with the soul itself.