0.5a - My Blood For Your Bones

White.

From light to the pale-lit ceiling, all things seemed to shine with a luminous clarity as the girl’s eyes opened for the first time.

Being born a Machina was overwhelming in the most elegant way.

Her vision was overlaid with input from her logical cores—every object, every concept explained directly to her mind without the need for words or prompt.

This is Nox Caelum. I am Lyra. I am a Machina. I am.

Her mind was developed—flawless, precise, perfectly equipped for function. But her soul… her soul was only seconds into its conscious existence.

The gentle sensation of warm water flowed over her being. She lay horizontal, the liquid just high enough to cover most of her torso, drifting freely between the strands of her hair and the thin fabric of her simple, unadorned white dress.

Her thistle-colored locks spread evenly across the surface, fanning outward, drifting away from her as she stared blankly upward—eyes fixed on that pale-lit ceiling—as if coming to terms with the quiet enormity of simply existing.

Then—a flash of gold.

The first color in her world of sterile uniformity.

It moved through the white like a living contradiction, and for reasons she couldn’t yet explain, something stirred faintly in her chest.

A sensation without a label.

Curiosity.

Her eyes followed the golden shadow, vision adjusting as she focused beyond the pale crystalline lighting.

“Hello?~”

The voice chimed with playful warmth, rich with something that didn’t belong in this sterile place.

She wore the black, form-fitting uniform of Nox Caelum. Her gaze locked onto an impish face—an excitable grin, golden eyes gleaming with mischief and brilliance all at once.

She understood this was a greeting. A question. Her logic filled in the missing context.

Subject: Proxima Nulla.

And yet… the data felt incomplete.

Unbidden, her arm rose—its first bodily order ever given.

Her fingers brushed against the delicate skin of Proxima’s cheek, clasping it gently.

It was warm.

So warm.

And though her mind supplied the temperature reading, the biological facts of skin and circulation, none of it could explain…

Why she didn’t want to let go.

“Oh? This is unexpected.”

Proxima, without hesitation, laid her own fingers over Lyra’s clutching hand—but didn’t pull it away.

“You’ll do perfectly, my little Lyra.”

She knew at once. She was not like the other stewards of the world.

Her first directive—her primary reason to exist—was this golden streak of color in a world of blinding white light.

Designation accepted. Purpose assigned.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next few days were equally overwhelming, though her mind was perfectly calibrated to handle the load.

“Oh wow. She really is a cutie, huh?”

Lyra’s hand remained intertwined with Proxima’s as they entered the upper halls of the Constellarium—the personal quarters of the Hyades—like a child led by a grown-up.

Her eyes drifted down to her feet, then hesitantly lifted toward the voice addressing her superior.

The speaker had shoulder-length soft pink hair, like virgin amethyst, and brilliant green eyes as gentle as sea glass.

Subject: Unit-09 Vulpecula — Hyades Class.

The data provided a full profile. Name. Function. Capabilities.

But no matter how thoroughly she reviewed it…

She couldn’t find the entry for cutie.

Her internal processors flagged the term for later analysis.

Emotional lexicon update required.

It seemed the Hyades had a way of forcing her to react unbidden.

For the first time since her birth, Lyra’s lips parted to speak.

“I am… not a ‘cutie.’ I am… Lyra.”

Vulpecula and Proxima both looked down at her, exchanged a glance, and for a brief moment, the room went silent.

Then they both burst into laughter, their hands ruffling through Lyra’s thistle-colored hair—ironic, considering she stood taller than both of them.

“Is that so?” Vulpecula grinned. “Well, Lyra… sometimes being a cutie isn’t something you decide. It just happens.”

Her fingers remained gentle, ruffling Lyra’s still-damp hair.

Lyra briefly considered contesting the point, but instead stood perfectly still, unsure why the warmth in her chest felt… strange.

“Is this your Lunae, my beloved elder sister?” Vulpecula teased, glancing at Proxima with a sly smile.

Proxima flashed her teeth, but nodded with hesitant confidence.

“Well, she was born under that directive. Though I have no intention of training her for succession. I just wanted someone to dabble in my hobbies with me.”

Vulpecula frowned, half hurt, half annoyed.

“I help you with your hobbies all the time! Are your sisters not enough for that anymore?”

Proxima’s eye twitched. She waved a dismissive hand toward her pouting sibling.

“That’s different, Vul. Lyra here was made for it! Her primary directive is to be my subordinate—to watch and engage with humanity alongside me. She’s cute, remember?”

Vulpecula immediately forgot her frustration and nodded enthusiastically.

“She is!”

Lyra tilted her head, confused, brows furrowed.

Checking data tables for reference. Lunae status: Under consideration. Current status: Subordinate class.

Proxima stood on her toes, fingers confidently brushing through Lyra’s damp hair despite the noticeable height difference.

“You don’t need to understand everything yet, Lyra,” she said with a knowing smile, golden eyes gleaming. “Just stay by my side. That’s all I ask.”

Lyra blinked.

She did understand. From the moment her eyes first opened to the pale-lit ceiling, from the first flash of gold that cut through the sterile white, she had known her purpose.

Stay by Proxima’s side.

It was as absolute and irrefutable as breath in her lungs, as the Aether in her veins.

But knowing her purpose and understanding it were not the same.

She stood quietly, processing the faint warmth blooming in her chest, the strange weight of her own existence.

Directive confirmed: Stay by Proxima’s side. Primary function accepted.

And yet…

Emotional state: Undefined. Query logged for future review.

“…Understood.”
__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Six years passed in a blink.

For the young Lyra, time moved as cleanly and efficiently as a well-executed process cycle.

She remained particularly diligent in her studies and directives. Proxima often used their time together not for official instruction, but to muse aloud about the inefficiencies of Ovum’s people… and why, despite their contradictions, she found them endlessly fascinating.

“They are numerous and short-lived. I don’t particularly like or hate them,” Lyra stated flatly, her hands moving with practiced grace as she returned various human relics from Proxima’s collection back into their containment units.

The floor of Lyra’s quarters was, as usual, a chaotic sprawl of artifacts—ancient garments folded over broken furniture, rusted trinkets mixed with priceless heirlooms. She had to restore order most every day, a task that, for some reason, had begun to ignite an unfamiliar irritation she didn’t particularly enjoy. Her eyebrow twitched.

“It is merely our role to observe them and to care for them,” she continued, her tone clinical. “I don’t believe emotional involvement is required for that task.”

Proxima lay sprawled amidst the chaos like a cat in a sunbeam, half-buried beneath a tangle of faded quilts and ceremonial garb.

“Ah, but isn’t it more fun this way?” she mused aloud, her fingers absently nudging a tarnished silver pendant, sending it spinning across the floor.

Lyra’s eyebrow twitched again.

Order was satisfying. Necessary. But this… this persistent disorder…

She paused, fingers tightening around a cracked porcelain figure before returning it—more firmly than necessary—to its case.

“There it is,” Proxima murmured, peeking from beneath a velvet mantle, a slow, knowing smile on her face. “You say you’re uninvolved, but even your eyebrow disagrees.”

“I am simply executing my assigned duties,” Lyra said flatly.

“Of course you are,” Proxima agreed, her grin utterly unrepentant. “Maintenance, after all.”

“You should also maintain this room,” Lyra shot back. “Even if you are my Lady, I am not fond of such—” She frowned. “—disorder in my quarters. It impairs my efficiency.”

“It’s an order,” Proxima declared, reaching for a box of garments. “Today, we revel in inefficient squalor.”

Lyra flinched. Her mortal enemy had surfaced.

“Lady Proxima… you have such inefficient hobbies.”

Proxima didn’t answer. It was unclear if she even heard.

“I used to have so many things that wouldn’t fit me,” she said brightly, “but now I have you to wear them!”

[Immediate emotional spike detected. Forecasted probability of escape: 0.2%.]
__________________________________________________________________________________________________

By the fifteenth year of her life, the young Monitor had grown accustomed to her Lady’s antics—and, for better or worse, had even come to appreciate them.

What she did not appreciate was currently lying beneath her. Namely, the unyielding floor of the training grounds and the sharp protest of her frame, every system quietly screaming for reprieve.

Her storm-colored eyes narrowed faintly as she glared up at Proxima.

“It baffles me,” she muttered, her tone dry despite the ache in her limbs, “that this is the only thing you take seriously.”

Proxima, as ever, seemed utterly unbothered. She shrugged lightly, golden eyes gleaming with that maddening calm.

“You did well. Lasted three seconds longer than your personal best.”

Lyra sat forward, locking her fingers with Proxima’s outstretched hand and letting her superior pull her to her feet.

The kind gesture did nothing to stop her from complaining.

“This is so inefficient,” she muttered, dusting herself off. “When are we possibly going to need this level of combat implementation?”

Proxima let her hand fall against Lyra’s forehead with a light thunk, the back of her fingers delivering a restrained but pointed tap.

“It’s better for you to be prepared than not to be,” she said, smiling faintly. “That would be the true inefficiency.”

Lyra’s eyes widened slightly as if struck by sudden enlightenment. Her gaze turned reverent, falling on Proxima as if to say—at last, she’s finally said something wise.

“…Why do I feel like you’re pitying me?”

Proxima’s tone turned grave for once, as if Lyra had somehow landed a blow she couldn’t quite defend against.

Lyra shook her head dryly, then nodded once, correcting herself with mechanical precision.

“Right. Now let’s go again.”

Proxima blinked, briefly caught off guard by Lyra’s sudden enthusiasm.

Then, just as quickly, she recovered—grinning wide, her usual impish self restored.

“Oh? That’s the spirit!”

Lyra let one of her rare smiles just barely surface as she and Proxima engaged in mock combat once more.

Without hesitation, she leaned forward.

But as their feet moved, the marble floors beneath her flickered—polished stone becoming shattered earth.
She felt the sharp sting of rain against her cheek. Heard the faint crackle of unstable Aether in the air.
And for a moment… she saw Proxima not with that impish, knowing grin—but standing distant. Dripping with rain. Her eyes full of something Lyra couldn’t quite name.

The air stirred faintly—not with violent instability, but with a subtle pulse of controlled Aether. Practice, nothing more.

Proxima slipped low beneath the arc of Lyra’s palm, her movements graceful, almost playful, as if humoring the younger Machina.

Lyra pivoted cleanly, her heel tracing a perfect circle across the polished marble, her other hand cutting smoothly through the air.

Proxima leaned back, the blow grazing the space her throat had occupied a heartbeat before.

Fast. Perfect. No hesitation. But it wasn’t fearsome—it was… impressive.

That burning palm came toward her again, but there was no malice behind it. Only concentration.

Golden eyes narrowed—but not with tension. With approval.

She ducked under the strike, slipping back with flawless grace, her gaze never leaving Lyra’s face as she leapt backward through the air, landing lightly with polished elegance.

And then—

“Lady Proxima?” Lyra’s voice floated after her—soft, perfectly measured.

Not confused. Not horrified. Just… inquisitive.

“Where are you going?”

Proxima chuckled softly and raised her hand—the signal to end the simulation.

“That’s enough for today. You’re improving quickly.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, her steps light, her mood unconcerned.

But somewhere deep inside, a faint chill lingered.

Proxima didn’t turn back.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Twenty short years since her birth…

Lyra reviewed the latest readings from Nox Caelum’s observatory with a rare, uneasy hesitation.

The numbers floated crisply before her eyes, but for the first time in her perfectly ordered memory, she couldn’t quite recall when she’d first started worrying about them.

Strange… it felt as if she had always been worried. As if this moment had already happened before.

Still, she pressed forward.

The Aether field instability wasn’t an unknown phenomenon—irregular, but not unprecedented. Yet these readings...

Saturations fluctuating from barely above ambient to thousands of times normal. And in the last two years, a trend—small at first, now undeniable.

She approached her superior with quiet urgency.

After briefly reviewing the presented data, even the normally unflappable Proxima Nulla seemed a bit worried.

“How long?”

The words echoed through Lyra’s mind like a forgotten refrain. Had she already asked this? Had she heard it before?

She blinked once. Twice. Her vision overlay flickered, the room’s crystalline light dimming as if the very memory were losing resolution.

This is Nox Caelum. I am Lyra. I am a Machina. I am.

The familiar mantra scrolled faintly across her sight—as if some buried protocol had restarted itself to keep her grounded.

Proxima stood before her… but something was wrong.

The golden eyes were thoughtful, her lips moved—but no sound reached Lyra’s ears. Like watching a memory play out behind cracked glass.

And then—just for a moment—Proxima turned to leave.

A hollow chill settled in Lyra’s chest. No… this isn’t right. This isn’t how it’s supposed…

“Lady Proxima? Where are you going?”

She heard her own voice ask the question—too perfectly timed, too familiar.

A flash of vertigo struck, and suddenly—

She was speaking. Present again. Back where she belonged.

She heard her own voice finish the thought as if nothing had happened.

“Difficult to determine with precision,” came the answer—horrifying familar. “The expanse doesn’t grow linearly. It pulses. Swells. Retreats. But based on the current density curve, I estimate less than a year. Likely less.”

She turned to glance back—eyes like liquid amber, bright even in the sterile white of the chamber.

But then time seemed to halt.

Proxima stood locked in place, and even the light bleeding through Nox Caelum’s hallowed halls seemed unable to move forward.

“Lady... Proxima?”

Panic ran up Lyra’s spine, raw and irrational. She turned her gaze to see what it was her superior had frozen at—

—and felt her lungs collapse.

Propped up against the pristine walls of Nox Caelum’s observation chamber, an old Aethari man sat quietly, his breath shallow, his eyes distant. White of hair and beard, his soft green eyes still held a strange, peaceful clarity.

Both his legs were gone.

Lyra tried to step back—recalibrate, correct, return to the moment as it should be—but her feet wouldn’t move.

The sterile white halls stretched into infinity, and yet… they were stained.

A trail of deep crimson, impossibly vivid against the purity of Nox Caelum, ran from the old man’s ruined body like a river seeking the edge of the world.

“Th-this isn’t…” Her voice faltered, systems looping through contradiction errors.

This is Nox Caelum. I am Lyra. I am a Machina. I am…

But her lips trembled. Her hands clenched at her sides. She couldn’t remember the next line.

The old man’s eyes found hers.

He smiled through bloodied teeth—but here, in this place, in this impossible moment, his voice seemed to echo through the very walls.

“…Don’t you worry for these old bones, my dear…”

And then—silence.

He exhaled once, faint and final.

But this time, there was no Lyra to kneel at his side. No golden light to ease his passing.

He simply… vanished.

And as he did, the world of Nox Caelum cracked. A fracture in the perfect ceiling above, white light bleeding away into a pale, empty grey.

She felt it then—

A gaze like knives drawn across the spine of the world, carving its hatred into her bones.

Something vast and unseen loomed beyond the fractured sky, its presence so absolute, so all-encompassing, that for a single breathless moment, she felt as though she had never existed at all.

And then she felt it—

Something broke inside her.

It wasn’t pain. Not exactly. It was the unbearable sensation of something essential coming undone—like the hidden threads that tethered her soul to reality had frayed and snapped all at once.

Her gaze fell down to her hands—but they weren’t her hands anymore.

They were a gnarled mangle of red and black, the fingertips burned away to gleaming bone.

“No. This can’t—no, I—”

A cold, endless weight pressed down through the fracture above, grinding into her chest. And for the first time in her existence, she understood what it meant to be unmade.

Her eyes slammed shut, her ruined hands covering her face as if that might somehow protect her.

“This is Nox Caelum. I am Lyra. I am a Machina. I am Lyra. I am! I am—Lady Proxima, I—!”

Her knees hit the polished floor with a sharp, metallic crack that echoed far too loud in the perfect white chamber.

“Is there something on your mind?”

And just like that—

The world snapped back.

The world went black. Memories corrected. Reality folded itself neatly shut.

“Lyra? Are you okay? I bet you’re worried.”

As if by force, Lyra felt compelled to answer, her voice perfect and calm—even as something inside her shrieked in absolute horror.

She couldn’t even change the words. Couldn’t fight them.

“This would be a good time,” Lyra trembled inside, “for a learned senior to put my worrisome nature at ease.”

[Memory stack critical. Visual overlays failing. Playback incomplete. Error. Er—Thank you. I’m sorry.]
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"I’ll ready myself at once."

Slender fingers pinched the hem of her white dress in a graceful bow—slightly more formal than usual. Her movements were precise, but the cadence of them had quickened just so.

[I am... Lyra... I am Mach▒na... I... ▇▇▇... not a... "cutie"... I I▇ ▓▓ Error— Subject: Proxima Nu░░a: "Lyra! St ▓p!"]
__________________________________________________________________________________________________—Time is running out— "Please. Hold on."
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

[Bonus Lore Fragment]

███ ACCESS LEVEL: RESTRICTED ███
NOX CAELUM — HIGH ARCHIVIST DATABASE

DESIGNATION: Cradle Dome — Sanctum Marrow Installation
FILED BY: Unit-01, Officina — High Archivist of Nox Caelum
Clearance Code: █████████

SUMMARY:

The Cradle Dome stands as one of the last surviving wonders of the Children of Ideation, hidden deep beneath the lowest reaches of Nox Caelum at point Sanctum Marrow. An unparalleled marvel of intent and Aetheric precision, the Dome bears the [REDACTED]—a [REDACTED] Sigil whose name and implications remain sealed by [REDACTED] under highest security protocols.

The Sigil grants the Dome a power akin to the most sacred and miraculous of forces—the ability to cultivate life from [REDACTED].

Not the crude spark of mere biology, but the nurturing and shaping of souls.

The Cradle Dome demands no sacrifice. It requires no death to birth new life. Within its perfect, ageless chambers, souls are grown—formed by the focused will of [REDACTED] and the boundless ideals of its creators.

A miracle wrought from birth and divinity.

In this way, the Cradle Dome is a perfect reflection of the Machina themselves—life born not through pain, but through purpose; forged in the deliberate, loving act of creation, untouched by mortality’s cruel cycles.

And yet… despite its perfection, the Dome was sealed. The reason remains [REDACTED]. (See: THE CALLISTO CONCLUSION)

CURRENT STATUS: Dormant.
Activation protocols remain sealed under Hyades-Level Priority. Unlocked only by unanimous consent of all surviving Hyades members.

Final Notation (Engraved Inscription):
“The Mother is blind in her love.”

This phrase, etched above the final chamber wall within the Dome, serves as both warning and lament. To create without limit is to risk forgetting why creation matters at all.

The Cradle Dome remains a silent monument to an ancient dream—that life might one day be free of sorrow, and its makers would never again be forced to choose between sacrifice and salvation.