The Light That Blinked

Act I — The Light That Blinked

If Heaven had a heartbeat, it skipped that morning.

Inside the First Legion’s Command Tower, the hum of the Solar Aegis filled the air — a sound older than memory, steady as eternity.

And then, it faltered.

Just once.
A single blink in the wall of light that shielded all creation.

Not shattered. Not cracked. Just… blinked.

Commander Solmar Veyne straightened slowly, golden light reflected in his armor.

“The Aegis doesn’t blink,” he murmured. “Not unless something disturbs the balance.”

For a second, he thought his eyes were lying — that the glare had tricked him.

But instinct, the kind forged through centuries of divine command, said otherwise.
Something had touched the Aegis from within.

A voice broke his thoughts.

Lieutenant Alen Rethis, his second-in-command, approached with a data-scroll — calm, disciplined, the kind who trusted readings more than instincts.

“Commander, is something wrong?”

Solmar’s gaze never left the light.

“Do you see any flicker in the Aegis feed?”

Alen checked the crystal console.

“None, sir. Flawless stability. No distortions or breaches. The barrier’s reading as… perfect.”

“Perfect,” Solmar echoed softly. “Then why did it blink?”

The lieutenant hesitated.
“An optical illusion, maybe? Reflection off the spireglass—”

Solmar’s eyes hardened.

“The Aegis doesn’t blink. Not for tricks of light.”

Silence pressed between them — heavy, electric.

Finally, Solmar turned toward the panoramic view.

Beyond the gleaming spires of Heaven, the distant horizon shimmered faintly — the black scar of the Oblivion Gate pulsing on the world’s edge.

“Maybe it was nothing,” he said quietly. “Or maybe Heaven just reacted to something… or someone.”

The hum of the Aegis deepened — steady again, serene.

But to Solmar, the peace now sounded like the pause between breaths.

He exhaled. Slowly.

“Log the reading,” he ordered. “If the light blinks again — even once — I want every Crownkeeper to know.”

Outside, Heaven shone as if nothing had changed.

Inside, the wall of sunlight remembered the flicker that no one else saw.

Act II — The Second Spar

The thing about Kael?
He’s genetically incapable of leaving well enough alone.

That morning, he cornered me in the training yard with that look in his eyes —
half rivalry, half “Haise is probably a demon wearing my rival’s skin.”

Kael: “Haise. Spar me. Properly this time.”

Oh, joy. Nothing screams relaxation like “try not to accidentally warp reality while my rival tries to stab me in front of witnesses.”

I spun the wooden sword in my hand with a sigh.

Me: “Sure. But try not to cry when I win. Again.”

We circled each other — soldiers and trainees forming a ring.

Even Lyra stood off to the side, green hair catching sunlight, brows knit in quiet worry.

Kael lunged first — fire snapping along his blade.

His swings screamed “I’ll burn you down just to prove I can.”

I countered with water, a clean arc spiraling from my palm to snuff the flames.

Easy. Too easy.

He pressed harder. Fire arcs. Lightning sparks.

I answered with earth walls and lazy counters.
My movements? Smooth. Almost bored.

No chants.
No dramatic Ignis! or Ventus! like everyone else.
Just me. A thought. A gesture. Done.

Kael noticed. Oh, did he notice.

His strikes grew sharper, angrier.
And then—my chest pulsed. Violet-gold. A flicker.

Reflex — click.

My blade clashed with his… and instead of a normal block, the air warped oddly.

A flare of fire sputtered into steam.
Kael’s swing jolted sideways, like his own power had betrayed him.

“For a heartbeat, Heaven itself flinched with us.”

The yard went dead silent.

Kael: “You—You don’t even chant! That’s not how power works! What are you hiding, Haise?”

Every eye turned to me.

Ministers’ whispers replayed in my head.
Dangerous. Unstable. Too much power.

I plastered on a grin, leaning on my sword like a performer waiting for applause.

Me: “What am I hiding? My secret skincare routine.

I’ll share it when you stop swinging like a drunk phantom beast.”

Laughter rippled.
Kael’s face turned red enough to ignite the practice yard.

He surged again, blade raised—

Lyra: “Enough!”

Her voice rang sharp, cutting the tension.
She rushed between us, hand glowing green.

Her gaze locked on mine — searching, pleading.
Then on Kael — firm.

He froze, fists trembling, jaw tight.
His glare promised this wasn’t over.

Kael: “One day, Haise. One day, your tricks won’t save you.”

He stormed off. The crowd dispersed, muttering.

Some laughed. Some whispered.
Too many whispered.

I sheathed the wooden blade and muttered under my breath:

Me: “Yeah. Tricks. That’s all this is.”

But my chest told me otherwise.

Act III — The Ninth Legion: Equinox Guard

The Hall of Dual Suns was never supposed to feel cold.

Two great orbs — one golden, one indigo — floated above the chamber, turning in perfect opposition, maintaining Heaven’s cycle of day and night.

But that morning, the balance stuttered.

A faint hum rose from the Balance of Dawn & Dusk, the relic that governed light’s harmony.

The golden orb dimmed slightly; the indigo one flared.

For a heartbeat, the cycle faltered.

Captain Lioren Veyl looked up from his reports, calm demeanor breaking only with the slightest crease between his brows.

Lieutenant: “Commander, the harmonic readings just dipped — barely a fraction, but the pulse inverted.”

Lioren: “The relic doesn’t invert. Log it.”

The hum deepened — one note out of tune, a tremor running through the marble floor.

And then, as if realizing its mistake, the relic corrected itself.

Light and shadow found their rhythm again.

Still, the air didn’t feel right.
The silence that followed was too smooth. Too exact.

Lioren (quietly): “No fluctuation on external interference?”

Lieutenant: “None, sir. The Balance is steady. It’s like it… skipped a beat.”

Lioren nodded slowly. His gaze rose to the relic again.

The golden light flickered once — faintly — like it was catching its breath.

He turned toward the observation window, where the horizon shimmered with faint solar resonance.

Lioren: “Send a sealed report to the First Legion’s command tower. Tell Commander Solmar we had a brief harmonic irregularity.”

Lieutenant: “Do you believe it’s connected, sir?”

Lioren: “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

The Balance’s hum settled, tranquil once more —
yet every soldier in the chamber felt the same thing:

Peace, pretending to be peace.

Act IV — The Light and Balance

A quiet chamber within the First Legion’s command spire.

No banners. No guards.

Only two captains and the faint hum of divine machinery.

Solmar Veyne stood beside a projection of the Solar Aegis — its golden core pulsing in slow, even rhythm.

Across from him, Lioren Veyl of the Equinox Guard reviewed a crystalline tablet filled with shifting harmonic graphs.

Solmar: “Our readings match to the breath.
First pulse at dawn — a blink. Yours followed thirty-two seconds later — inversion and self-correction.”

Lioren: “Two relics misbehaving within a single hour.

That hasn’t happened since the War of Fractures.”

Solmar’s gaze lingered on the projection.
Heaven doesn’t make mistakes, he thought, so why does it look like it’s trying to correct one?

Solmar’s jaw tightened.

He zoomed in on the waveform — a single violet-gold spike hidden between perfect symmetry.

Solmar: “Whatever it was, the Aegis treated it as internal interference. No breach. No origin point.”

Lioren: “The Balance logged it as a harmonic lapse — a skipped note.

Then corrected itself, as if embarrassed.”

A silence stretched between them — heavy but unspoken.

Outside the window, the twin suns crossed paths, bathing the chamber in alternating gold and indigo light.

Solmar: “We report this?”

Lioren: “Let’s gather all commanders.”

Solmar: “Agreed.
We’ll keep a private channel open.
If the Aegis or Balance falters again… we’ll know.”

They clasped forearms — the greeting of Crownkeepers.

Two guardians bound by order, standing in the first hairline crack of something far greater.

As Lioren left, the Aegis gave one faint tremor — almost a sigh.
Both captains pretended not to notice.

Closing Bridge

As Lioren’s steps faded, the Aegis thrummed once more — a pulse swallowed by silence.
Somewhere deep in Heaven’s heart, other relics began to hum in answer.

The world flinches before realizing why.