The Hall of Unfolding Glyphs in Ophira was a sanctuary of ordered thought. Light, channeled into precise beams, illuminated floating platforms where Cherubim scholars contemplated the intricate patterns of creation. The air hummed with the soft, layered sound of a thousand minds at work—the rustle of ethereal scrolls, the chime of data-crystals being slotted into place, the low murmur of debate. It was a symphony of intellect, and for Leviathan, it had once been home.
Now, it felt like a cage.
She glided through the vast space, her form a complex, beautiful architecture of interlocking silver wheels. The countless eyes upon her rims observed everything—the way a junior scholar nervously adjusted his robes before approaching a superior, the dismissive flick of a wing from a high Cherubim named Cassiel as he rejected a theory from a Malakim adjunct. The memory of her village, the Luminous Weavers, their lights dimmed by conscription and fear, was a fresh wound.
She had come to Ophira to make a difference. To use her vast knowledge to protect them. But she was a functionary here, a glorified archivist, her access to real power blocked by layers of tradition and arrogance.
Her task today was mundane: cross-reference prophetic texts concerning "mortal choice" with recent tactical reports from the front. It was busywork, but she poured herself into it, her wheels turning with quiet focus. As she worked, a pattern began to emerge, subtle and terrifying. The texts spoke of a "fragility of spirit" in the face of overwhelming order. The reports from the front described a new, chillingly effective Illuminated tactic: targeted assaults not on strongpoints, but on centers of art and memory, on places like her village.
They weren't just fighting an army. They were trying to erase a culture.
Her many eyes widened, the soft light within them sharpening. This was it. The connection the high Cherubim were too blind to see. If she could present this, show them how the war was being fought on a philosophical level, she could force a change in strategy. She could save her people.
She compiled her findings with meticulous care, weaving text and tactical data into a brilliant, damning tapestry of insight. She requested an audience with the Conclave of Scribes, the mid-level administrators who could bring her work to the high Cherubim.
She stood before them, her data glowing in the air. She spoke not with passion, but with a scholar's calm precision, outlining the systematic destruction of Heaven's soul.
"The enemy understands what we do not," she concluded, her layered voice resonating with conviction. "They attack our identity. Our outlying villages, our artistic centers—they are not 'statistically insignificant.' They are the wellspring of our will to fight. To lose them is to lose the war before a single fortress falls."
She finished, her proof hanging in the air, unassailable.
The head scribe, a Cherubim named Lahab (no relation to the soldier), scanned the data with a disinterested gaze. "An... interesting correlation, Leviathan. Your diligence is noted."
A flicker of hope.
Then he continued. "However, the strategic priorities remain the material fronts. The Matzok, the forges of the Metzudah. We cannot divert resources to guard every... tapestry weaver." He offered a thin, condescending smile. "Your findings will be archived for future review. You may return to your duties."
Archived.
The word was a slap. Her brilliant work, the key to saving everything she loved, was to be filed away and forgotten. The hope in her heart curdled into something hot and sharp.
She watched as Lahab and the other scribes turned their attention to a new report—a dry analysis of energy consumption in the Aethel. They were granted an audience with the high Cherubim for that. For numbers. For dust.
And in that moment, the seed of her virtue—a deep, reverent love for knowledge—sprouted into the thorns of Envy.
It was not a desire for personal glory. It was a furious, burning need for the authority they so carelessly wielded. I see the truth, she thought, her many eyes flashing with a sudden, brilliant, and bitter emerald green. I understand the real war. My knowledge is deeper, my insight truer. This power is wasted on them. If I had their position, I could force them to see. I could save my people.
She lowered her gaze, the emerald fire banked to a smolder. "Of course," she chimed, her voice once again the picture of serene obedience. "I will continue my archival work."
But as she glided away, her wheels turned with a new, silent purpose. She was no longer just a scholar preserving knowledge. She was a keeper of secrets who had just seen the key to a different future, and she coveted it with a ferocity that frightened her. The archives held more than just prophecies; they held weaknesses, forgotten lore, levers of power. And she would learn to pull every single one.