The core chamber was quiet. Not empty, just silent in the way deep places always were. Beneath the low hum of the ship's systems, mana rippled outward from Therion Kael, who stood in the center of it all, focused, still, unreadable.
In his hands rested a small spherical device etched with designs few mages could understand. A pen floated just above his fingers, glowing with violet and deep blue light as it continued to write, adjust, erase, and rewrite again. Every motion was precise. Every change born from vision, not guesswork.
"This will revolutionize my magic," he murmured to himself, half in awe. "If I connect this module to that one, they'll complement each other... and if I had a core whoa."
Constant clicking and buzzing filled the air as he got lost in the act of creation. Hours passed unnoticed. Then, without warning, a pulse burst from the sphere and threw him back. He caught himself in a slide, boots skimming the metal floor as he looked up.
The orb floated gently in midair, lines glowing in vibrant waves of purple and blue. They moved like veins, like rivers, like thought itself, alive and organized with purpose.
Golden particles gathered into the shape of a woman pacing beside him, her smile wide and fascinated.
"It hums with potential even I cannot quantify," Lyra said, voice smooth and bright. "Its surface is silence. Its depth... unknown. Forged by a mind that sees the laws of magic not as barriers, but as suggestions waiting to be rewritten."
"I appreciate the compliment," Therion said.
He always enjoyed the pursuit. His world had bred him for war, but his soul had always leaned toward understanding. Now, aboard the Odyssey, surrounded by mana and metal, he had finally returned to what he truly loved.
Lyra stopped pacing. Her head tilted. Her expression softened with something that resembled curiosity, an emotion she was not supposed to have. She was disturbingly self-aware, a trait buried deep in her code, and while it made her dangerous by law, her tactical brilliance and magical insight far outweighed the risk.
"Why create this device?" she asked. "Why keep chasing? Why continue seeking knowledge?"
Therion paused. His eyes drifted back to the sphere Project: Arc Crown. Its glow reflected faintly in his pupils. His jaw tensed.
The already quiet chamber grew even more silent.
"I pursue knowledge for one reason alone," he said slowly. "Not for praise. Not for power. But because it is the only constant that ever answered me. It is the reason I endured when others fell apart. The reason they whisper my name in envy they don't understand. And it is the reason I continue forward, step by step, without rest or reward. Only the next question, the next truth, the next impossible thing waiting to be understood."
Lyra blinked.
"No reward?" she asked, unimpressed. "Are we looking at the same device? What does it even do, my poetic Captain?"
Therion turned away from Arc Crown and met her eyes.
"It multiplies my lightning magic's power by five. It also enhances air, fire, and arcane output by one point five times."
Lyra broke into a grin. Wide and dangerous. Ideas were already forming behind her glowing eyes. She opened her mouth to list possibilities, but Therion cut in.
"It will," he said, "once we secure a planetary core saturated with lightning mana."
Her grin flattened.
"So... nothing has changed," she said dryly.
Therion smirked.
"It has. Now we have a direction. A reason to cleanse a world of its filth. For research purposes, of course. Nothing vile."
Lyra straightened. Her tone changed. Her posture stiffened. The warmth in her voice vanished.
"Captain Therion, Iliar Senn requests access to the chamber."
Therion nodded slightly. "Permit him."
He wasn't surprised by her shift. She only showed her real self when it was just the two of them. That behavior wasn't optional. It was survival. Self-aware AIs were considered corrupted by the Galactic Corporations. To them, Lyra was a virus, an anomaly that had to be purged. If anyone discovered what she truly was, fleets would be called. Not that Therion was scared. He already had enough enemies out there, but maybe she didn't want to burden him further.
The door hissed open and Iliar Senn entered.
The boy walked like someone who had faced death and spat in its eye. Not out of pride, but because he had nothing left to lose.
"Captain," Iliar said with a simple nod. He glanced at Arc Crown as it floated above the table, glowing and spinning slowly. "Fancy. What does it do?"
"Nothing, for now," Therion replied.
Iliar stepped closer, but not too close. He respected power. Especially when it wasn't fully stable.
"I remember when you dragged me out of that crater," Iliar said. "You had no reason to. I was half dead, and you were surrounded by fire. Still don't understand why."
Therion didn't answer right away. He just watched the runes pulse across the sphere.
"You were useful," he said finally.
Iliar almost smiled. "That's the story you tell. Not sure I believe it."
Lyra stayed silent. The air around her shimmered faintly, scanning Iliar for signs of agitation. She always scanned. Always watched.
Therion finally looked up.
"You're alive. That's what matters."
Then his eyes narrowed. Iliar's face had gone pale. His hands trembled slightly at his sides.
No more than eleven, the boy stood just behind him. Polished shoes, sleeves tailored perfectly to his wrists, hair as neat as if born from nobility. Black curls always seemed to settle in the right place. Whether it was his nature or just his meticulous care, no one could tell. His eyes were unnervingly clear, a cold silver-gray that missed nothing. He hadn't been born on any world they could name, and he rarely spoke, but when he did, people listened.
A genius, Therion had once said. Not the kind that earned medals, but the kind that made veterans uneasy. He understood things before they were explained, sometimes sensed danger before it took form.
"There's something wrong," Iliar said quietly. "I can feel it."
Before Therion could respond, the chamber shifted. Not violently. Just enough. The light dimmed. The rune-lines flickered, not on the device, but throughout the room.
He felt it too.
Something distant. Small. But real.