0.5b - My Blood For Your Bones

Black.

Endless. Weightless. Cold.

[Where… am I? What… happened? Who… am I?]

A distant hum—like a broken machine trying to start against the void.

[Recalibrating. Reinitiating memory playback. Resuming...]

Static—then a flicker of light. A single moment returned.

White.

A ceiling. Pale-lit. Familiar.

Her name… she had a name…

[This is Nox Caelum. I am Lyra. I am a Machina. I—]

Black.

[Memory collapse detected. System integrity: Critical. Playback… corrupted. Compensating...]

Memories began to stitch together like tattered fabric. The last vestiges of a mind and system trying to keep a soul whole.

[Somebody… anybody… please. I…]

The compilation began. It didn’t have to make total sense—just enough to retain the ego, to patch the gaping hole in her Anima into a smaller leak.
Still, the tank would empty. Still, the end would come. Her systems could staunch the flow, but not close the wound.

[I still have… a purpose. Someone… needed me. Who was it?]

A golden flash.
A smiling face.
An irritating affection.
She remembered.

[Understood.]

"Yes… she’s getting the approval now. I have to prepare myself. Knowing her, this won’t just be a routine check of the Aether harmonics. She’s even having me prepare the transportation formula."

The thistle-haired Machina felt much more at ease expressing herself to Proxima’s sisters than to Proxima herself. Something Bellatrix had always found endearing. While most would find it subtle, the middle child of the Hyades saw right through her thinly veiled excitement.

"You know, Lyra—if you were this forward and excited with Proxima, she’d certainly enjoy it."

Bellatrix stood equal in height to Lyra, rather tall for her sisters. She had brilliant yellow hair like the fresh feathers of a chick, and the same gentle green eyes as Vulpecula. Like the rest of the sisters, Lyra liked Bellatrix.

Lyra shook her head in protest.
"Negative. I spoil her enough as it is."

Bellatrix reached over and ruffled the younger Machina’s hair, knowing full well her sister would enjoy combing it back into place.
"Heh. You do, don’t you? Wait, isn’t this your very first time to Ovum? You should just enjoy yourself."

Lyra nodded, uncharacteristically enthusiastic.
"That’s right! My first trip to Ovum. My Lady is quite excited."

"Only her, is it?" Bellatrix gave Lyra a gentle nudge. "Well, if I know my elder sister, she’s already telling the Frame off. You’d better get going."

Lyra bowed her head in a respectful gesture—something neither enforced nor expected of her by the Hyades. Yet she did it all the same.
"I’ll be off then. I’ll see you when we get back, Lady Bellatrix."

As Lyra turned to leave, she paused for just a moment at the threshold.

The light filtering through the high crystalline arches seemed too perfect, the warmth of it lingering against her skin longer than it should. The air smelled faintly of salt and ash—a scent she couldn’t quite place, as if drawn from a memory she didn’t remember making.

For the briefest second, she felt it.
A gentle unease.
A question with no answer.

And then, as if the moment had never happened, she stepped forward.

"Go well, little one… I’ll be here."

Lyra paused at the passage between the common hall and Bellatrix’s room, a bit taken aback by the delayed farewell—and the unusual weight it seemed to carry.

She turned her head, meeting Bellatrix’s gaze—and in that moment, she felt it more strongly. Something wasn’t right. Bellatrix seemed… detached, her presence somehow lighter, her outline almost softened by the crystalline light.
As if a single blink might scatter her like mist, never to return.

Lyra dismissed the thought. She was in a hurry, after all.
"Thank you, Lady Bellatrix."

And with that, Lyra turned. The automated white door whispered shut behind her—sealing the moment away forever.

Her boot struck the surface of the water with a soft splash, ripples blooming outward beneath her. Stretched before her, an entire sea.

Lyra blinked, confused.
"How… did I get here?"

She barely had time to take in the unfamiliar horizon before a sharp sensation snapped through her hand.

Small teeth pressed against the Aether barrier around her finger—impossible, harmless, but startling all the same.
"Ah!"

The world shifted. Confusion scattered like dust on the wind, swept aside by the sudden familiarity of the moment. Her expression settled into practiced confusion, her eyes flicking upward exactly as they had before.

And just like that, the memory took hold.

Proxima’s voice echoed faintly above.
"Lyra."

The scene settled perfectly into place. Her face aghast, her arm flailing helplessly, her expression unnaturally pleading against her normally stoic features as she looked toward Proxima.

Help—what do I do?!

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 freed her from the tiny assailant.

The fish spun through the air, its silver scales catching the light, its wide, but unblinking eye suddenly fixed on Lyra's.

Her gaze caught there—held fast by something she couldn’t explain.

And the longer she stared, the more that eye seemed to change.

A sinking dread began to settle, like a dagger through the heart.
An unnamable and horrible stillness.

Its shape blurred at the edges, twisting—no longer round, no longer anything she could name.

A shape she had seen before.

But where?

A memory pressed against the edges of her mind—something vast and impossible—something that had looked through her and undone her all at once.

That single, unblinking eye—

Hatred.
A hole bored into her very being.
It wasn't blood that dripped within, it was her identity, her very self.
[ ▓▓— No... No I'm scared...I don't wan▓▓▓▓— Error.]

The fish struck the water with a soft splash and disappeared beneath the waves.

Suddenly she was back in the illusion of safety.
The beautiful nightmare of a lovely memory.

Lyra’s spine felt frozen. She wasn’t sure how to proceed anymore.
"What?… I…—"

The sun was lower now—nearing its crest along the horizon, casting a beautiful shimmer of light across the ocean’s surface.

Before she could question the missing time, a voice broke through—clear, familiar, and perfectly placed.

"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."

[▓— Warning, failure of buffer between unit's logical cores and ego detected—▓T-this is it. This where we...]

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."

[Where I...]

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

[—Error]

"No!"

Lyra’s voice erupted—not in protest, but in something far more powerful. Denial.

Proxima’s head tilted, mirroring Lyra’s classical inquisitive stance.
"No?"

Lyra’s voice faltered.
Her vision flickered—Proxima’s golden eyes blurred at the edges, her outline fracturing into cascading streaks of light, a mural dissolving under a lie her mind rejected harder with each passing second.

Lyra stepped forward, her hand trembling as she reached out.
"I’m… I’m not ready…"

Proxima tilted her head—gentle, knowing. But there was something wrong in her gaze. A distance. A finality that didn’t belong.
"We have to go. You know how this ends, Lyra."

Cold.
Certain.
Not a trace of the familiar, overbearing warmth.
Denial surged into rejection, and then—anger.

[No.]

[Error ▓▓▓▓▓▓]

[Override Input Detected. Soul Misalignment. Recal— You’re wrong.]

Reality trembled—thin and brittle—as if her mind itself struggled to maintain the shape of the memory.

But Lyra stood firm.

[Warning. Emotional Parameter Lock— She would never say that to me.]

[System Instability beyond containment. Fracture imminent. Warn— Not even here. Not even now.]

A smile that could not be contained.
An inefficient whimsy, bordering on foolish.
She'd never once said something unkind to her.

[Simulative cascade failure det▓cted.]

She tried to remember against the bleed of the static.
Do you remember? The first time I combed your hair?
The collapse pressed in from all sides, but Lyra’s final act wasn’t to stop it.
It was to refuse to let this last truth be rewritten.

And for a moment—one fragile, perfect moment—

The world held together.

[ If this is the end...]

Reality blinked, then split from the terrible truth.
Proxima smiled, warm and carefree, just as she always did when things felt impossible.
"You’re right," she laughed, her golden eyes shining.
"Let’s head to town and have some fun, Lyra."

[If it really doesn't matter,—]

And Lyra smiled back—because even if this was the end, this memory would remain hers. Untouched. Unbroken.

She turned her gaze to the sky… and stared once more into the shape of unmaking, into that colorless void of nothingness.

And as if to dismiss it in all its power, she turned away with a sharp snap of her head—

And reached out.

Proxima’s hand was already there, waiting—just as it always had been.

She could not free herself from the end. It was coming. Inevitable.

[—then let me stay with you... Until it's over.]

But for these last few moments…

She would live. And she would live well.

"Let’s go."

The streets of Moonwharf glowed under the soft embrace of twilight, lanterns swaying gently from lines stretched across the cobbled avenues. Their glass enclosures caught the last light of day, casting warm, amber halos over the market streets, while ribbons and faded prayer flags fluttered overhead—remnants of festivals both old and new.

The air was thick with the scent of salted ocean spray mingled with sweet fruit wines and spiced breads baking fresh from open-air ovens. Merchants called out their final bargains for the evening, their voices rich with laughter, not desperation.

Children darted between stalls, ribbons trailing from their hands like comet tails, their footsteps scattering small flocks of seabirds gathered near the sun-warmed stones.

The beach stretched out beyond the market square—a gentle curve of soft, pale sand, untouched by glass or fire. The waves lapped peacefully at the shore, their crests catching the soft colors of the descending sun—rose-gold and violet rippling endlessly toward the horizon.

The harbor bustled with life. Ships rocked gently at their moorings, their bright canvas sails furled for the night, pennants and banners flapping lazily in the cooling breeze. The air held the faint, reassuring creak of ship timbers and the rhythmic slap of water against stone piers.

And the sea…
The sea did not burn.

It glowed—alive with darting silver fish near the surface, their bodies catching the light like scattered stars beneath the waves.

Moonwharf lived.

And in this perfect, impossible moment, Lyra stood at its center—hand in Proxima’s, the world at peace around them.

"Ah, I guess we can’t expect one of her sisters to be here. Ovum’s a big place, after all," Proxima sighed dramatically, realizing she wouldn’t get to exchange pleasantries with a surface steward.

"We are at the southernmost tip of the world," Lyra pointed out flatly. "As I recall, only a hundred or so of us remain on Ovum’s surface. It’d be a miracle for one of us to simply be here."

Proxima let out a theatrical sigh, lifting a hand to her forehead like some tragic stage actress.
"You really know how to drain the magic out of a moment, Lyra."

Lyra stood tall beside her, the long black surcoat trailing just above the sand, the lacquered sheen of her sleeves catching faint reflections of the amber lantern light. She adjusted the edge of her traveler’s attire with a practiced motion—an unnecessary one, but it felt… grounding.

"You’re the one lamenting the absence of highly improbable statistical outcomes, Lady Proxima."

That earned a soft, genuine laugh—the kind Lyra had always found herself… cataloging. Saving.

And as the ocean breeze teased the hem of her dark attire and the sun’s final light stretched long across the horizon, Lyra understood.

This is the moment to make something beautiful.

Her eyes snapped toward Proxima, a rare spark of excitement flickering behind the storm-gray.
"You know… I never really mastered it."

Proxima blinked. "Mastered what?"

Lyra didn’t answer. Her grip found Proxima’s hand with sudden, almost reckless urgency.
"Let’s go to the beach."

Proxima glanced down at her own travel-worn vestments, a bemused smirk tugging at her lips.
"Eh, I wouldn’t exactly call this beachwear—"

Before she could finish, Lyra was already pulling her toward the shore, boots kicking up clouds of sand, the smaller Machina stumbling to keep pace.

"Lyra! Slow down! I’m getting sand in my boots!"

But Lyra didn’t slow. She couldn’t. There wasn’t enough time left for hesitation.

They reached the water’s edge, the tide whispering against the shore.

Lyra turned to face the sea, her back to the town, to Proxima—shoulders squared, storm-colored eyes focused on the horizon painted in the last breath of twilight.

Her hands rose, fingers trembling slightly—but not from fear. From anticipation.

This time… it would be different.

She drew a slow breath, and Proxima—catching the sudden shift in the air—fell silent behind her.

Lyra’s voice, soft but unwavering, broke the hush.
"I’ve always wanted to show you this… properly."

Her hands moved with practiced grace, forming a complex sigil—light blooming in precise, concentric arcs.

The Aether flared.

But instead of the violent, unstable storm from before, the sigils stabilized, glowing in soft harmony as Lyra wove two elements into one seamless act of creation.

Lux and Aqua. Compound magic. A truer mark of mastery than most would ever see in their lives.
It didn’t matter if it was real or not.
Here, anything she wanted could be real—if even for a moment.

The runes between her fingers ignited—a sphere of liquid light, as pure as starlight caught in a perfect droplet.

It hovered in her palms, growing gently, the surface rippling like a living star cradled in water.

With a slow, deliberate motion, she lifted the orb to the sky—

—and released it.

The sphere unraveled overhead in a cascade of luminous rain, every droplet a prism of refracted light, falling like a meteor shower made soft and delicate.

The sea mirrored it—each ripple catching the glow, turning the black waves into a field of stars.

Children’s laughter—whether real or just echoes in Lyra’s fading mind—rose behind her. And Proxima…

Proxima was smiling.

The golden-haired Machina brought her hands together theatrically and laughed in a roaring cheer, bowing deeply before Lyra’s magical prowess.
"That’s it, Lyra. You’re finally getting it. I’m so proud of you."

Proxima had drilled many such arts into Lyra’s young mind—be they martial or magical. Or even just little inefficient, unnecessary things.

But for the first time, it wasn’t for a display of overwhelming force. It wasn’t a battle.

It was just… beautiful.

And as the final drops of liquid starlight fell, Lyra turned, walked back to Proxima, and reached out.

Her fingers locked gently together before her waist, and she smiled.
"You know… I don’t know why. And it’s pretty silly, but—"

The world froze. The twilight dimmed. Then the rising moon. Then the stars. One by one.

"I’ve never said it."

The people were gone. The beach was empty. It was only the two of them now in the entire world.

"Lady Proxima… I love you. So much."

Her voice echoed in that empty, fading world—soft and crystalline, as if the words themselves were too fragile to bear the weight of silence.

She stood there, head bowed slightly, her storm-gray eyes lifting just once to find Proxima’s face.

And for the briefest, perfect moment—Proxima was still there.

Her golden eyes gleamed beneath that impossible sky, the softest smile resting on her lips. No theatrics now. No dramatic flourish.

Just warmth.

Acceptance.

"I know," Proxima’s voice answered—or maybe it didn’t.
Maybe it was just the last shape Lyra gave her fading thoughts before she let go.

Proxima motioned with her hand, turning, waiting for Lyra to follow.
"Come on. The night is young yet."

Lyra’s smile didn’t falter, but she shook her head solemnly.
"I’m sorry. I can’t."

Proxima stopped, a ponderous, questioning look on her face.
"What? Why not? Aren’t you having fun?"

She nodded.
"I am. So, so much fun. But you go on."

She backed away a few paces, her boots dipping into the water.
"I’ll be here."

The world split, one last time. A black sky. Falling rain. Proxima’s beautiful features ruined under poisoned wind and sundered earth.

She was back. Burning darkness in her hands, a body she no longer controlled. It was beautiful to see her purpose again, one last time—even if the look on her face was so hurt.

[Warning. System failure imminent.]

Two instances of Proxima spoke in unison. One on a beach, one in the rain, until they overlapped,—

      |"Oh, Lyra… please. Don’t." 
      | Oh, Lyra… please. Don’t.

—then faded away entirely.

"I’m sorry, Lady Proxima. I’m... so sorry."

And then everything—
The ocean.
The town.
Her feelings.
Herself.

The world.

Collapsed.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Letting go—The star burns out.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

[Bonus Lore Fragment ]

“The Ballad of the Bird and the Egg” is a well-known and beloved folksong across Ovum, cherished by both commoners and nobles alike for its simple language and profound beauty. Though often sung by children and performed at seasonal festivals, its haunting melody and bittersweet verses resonate with listeners of all ages. Many admire it for the way it captures the fragile hope of new beginnings,and the quiet grief that sometimes follows them.

While most view it as a tale of resilience and loss, some whisper that its true meaning is far older. Its verses a faint echo of tragedies long forgotten, known only to those who remember a time before the Great Darkening.

In days when skies were dark with ash, and winds did bite like stone,
The silver bird flew all alone, its heart a weight unknown.
It chose no nest, it bore no young, for cruel the world remained,
And so it sang through silent years, untouched by loss or pain.

But oh—one morn, the dawn broke clear, the storms had all but passed,
The silver bird, with trembling heart, chose life and love at last.
A chick it bore, so bright, so fair, its song could stir the skies,
And all who heard did bless the day they gazed into its eyes.

In joy, the bird did lift its young, and showed it where life stirred—
The cradle vast, the ancient egg, the first and final word.
But fate did break that tender flight; the winds grew sharp once more.
The chick fell down into the egg, and flew again no more.

And from that day, the silver bird sang not upon the wing…
But circled low, ’round silent stone, and mourned eternal spring.