Unlike the forges and obsidian of Vorlag, Lyra was not a world of rock and fire. It was a sphere of crystal and melody, suspended beneath the white-blue glow of its sun, Caelus. Here, on a planet where the atmosphere shimmered with crystal dust, the light itself sang.
It was a constant melody that flowed through the city's towers. For Liana, acolyte of House Aethel, this harmony of colors was the meaning of peace.
She was meditating in the Hanging Gardens, her form reflecting the prismatic colors of dawn—a miracle of light created by the unique conditions of the atmosphere—when the song broke.
It was not a loud sound. It was a dissonance. A sour, wrong note that vibrated through the city's luminous network, making all the colors flicker with a sickly hue.
A moment later, chaos erupted. Distant screams, like the shattering of glass. The melody of peace had become a requiem.
Master Elian, was her only thought.
Liana withdrew from her meditative form, becoming a sleek, silver figure, and ran. Her fluid body glided through the academy halls, ignoring the other acolytes huddling together, their forms flickering with panic and confusion.
When she reached the main plaza, she stopped dead.
The crowd was a sea of fury. They no longer reflected the serene light of the city; their bodies were canvases of violent colors: furious reds, threatening blacks. At the center, atop a pedestal, a figure with polished chrome skin raised a fist.
Lyra "the Forged." The leader of the Chrome Vanguard.
—The logics have spat in our faces! —her voice amplified by resonators—. They have murdered Ambassador Varen! And our Echo Conclave asks us for calm! They ask us for dialogue!
A roar of hatred swept through the plaza.
—Calm is weakness! Dialogue is submission! —shouted Lyra—. The only answer to steel is steel! The only art that matters now is the art of war!
Liana shivered. They were using Varen's tragedy—a man of peace—to feed their own agenda of violence. She averted her gaze and continued toward Master Elian's chambers, the leader of the Conclave.
She found her master in the Chamber of Silence. The room, usually a whirlwind of inspiring colors, was sunk in monotone gray.
Master Elian, of House Aethel, sat before his desk, his normally radiant form now dull and heavy. He seemed to have aged a century in minutes.
—Master —whispered Liana.
Elian looked up. Pain swirled across his surface. —He was my friend, Liana. Varen believed in peace more than anyone. He believed Kaelon logic could be reached.
—What will we do? —Liana asked, her voice trembling slightly.
—We will do what Varen would have wanted —Elian replied, his form regaining a hint of its former resolve—. We will not answer violence with violence. We will demand an investigation. We will open diplomatic channels with the Vorlag so they can mediate.
Diplomacy? Liana thought in despair. The people in the plaza want blood, not words.
—His last message arrived a few hours ago —Elian continued, pointing to a data crystal on the desk—. He spoke of political tension, of course. But he also mentioned something strange.
Liana leaned in.
—He said Kaelon systems were suffering "cascading syntax failures." Their predictive models were collapsing. Varen believed it wasn't sabotage, but an external anomaly corrupting their data. A kind of… static in reality.
Elian shook his head. —I didn't think much of it. I thought it was a simple technical curiosity. Now…
He couldn't finish. A deafening roar shook the chamber, coming from the plaza. It was the rhythmic sound of thousands of fists pounding the ground, an improvised war drum.
Liana ran to the balcony. The Vanguard's crowd had grown. Now they dragged two massive effigies to the center of the plaza.
One was a geometric, faceless figure, representing a Kaelonite.
The other was an exact replica of Master Elian.
—Death to the murderers! —Lyra "the Forged" roared—. And death to the weak who would leave us defenseless!
With a scream that shook the city's foundations, they set fire to both figures. The plaza, which minutes before had sung with light, now burned with the flames of hatred. The war was not just knocking at their door; it had already begun, right here, in their own home.