The morning breeze swept softly through the tall arches of the estate's outer corridors. Sunlight filtered in through radiant glyph-etched windows that glowed faintly with golden light, casting a serene but unfeeling brilliance across the halls. The world outside the Solaris estate glittered with perfection. Inside, it was suffocating.
Merir leaned against the cold stone of one of the pillars surrounding the courtyard. Emerald grass stretched out below him, bordered by marble walkways carved with flowing radiant patterns, another echo of his family's blinding expectation of purity and power. The same courtyard his siblings dominated during training. The very same they left him humiliated in, time and time again.
He glanced at his hand. His fingers trembled faintly, still sore from the strain of forging the lie from earlier.
"This light is a blade," he thought. The weight of the memory lingered, both thrilling and exhausting.
The blade—the imperfect, unstable weapon—had been a triumph born from desperation. He had conjured his own version of his family's prized Solaris Blade. But as the warm light of dawn washed over him now, a realization grew in his chest, heavy as stone.
"That's not enough," he muttered under his breath, rubbing his palms together while the soft hum of the system's lie tracker echoed faintly in his mind.
Offense was only one part of survival. One weapon wouldn't guarantee victory.
His hands stilled as he thought back to the Solaris training yard, the way his siblings effortlessly wielded their power, their strength rooted not just in attack but in defense. His father's voice echoed sharply in his mind, cutting through the quiet morning:
"The light must not only cut. It must protect."
Merir's jaw tightened. He'd seen it countless times—the way Kael would conjure barriers of radiant energy, golden shields that glowed like molten sunlight, an impenetrable wall of power. Lux's shields, while smaller, were sleek, fast, practically alive as they rippled back each strike without hesitation.
The memory burned.
After years of being crushed beneath them, taunted for his inability to conjure even the faintest hint of defense, Merir knew one thing: to survive, he needed more than just the clumsy strength of a crude blade. He needed something he could trust, even if it was a mere lie.
---
Merir retreated back to his room before midday, the light outside now brighter, harsher, as if his family's judgement had somehow infused the entire world.
The faint crack in the mirror seemed to greet him as he stepped inside—it shimmered faintly in the corner, a tangible reminder of the first lie he had spoken. He exhaled slowly, pulling the door shut behind him.
His thoughts were sharp and focused now. If his family's light could shield them, his lies would imitate that same strength.
"Defense," he whispered, pacing the room. The golden glyphs inscribed into the walls seemed to pulse faintly in response, but he ignored them. His world had outgrown the constraints of the divine system of Solaris. The gilded rules of Lumina didn't concern him anymore.
*What does a shield mean?* he thought, studying his hands.
He pictured Kael, standing tall with his radiant barrier absorbing even the most devastating blows. He pictured Lux's smirking face as her smaller, agile shields danced in front of her, deflecting every attempt Merir had made to land a strike. He closed his eyes, drawing the shape of a shield in his mind—the pure glow of light taking solid form to protect him.
An unease crept into his chest. His siblings didn't just rely on their blades or shields to fight. The Solaris barrier was woven into their strength, their grace. They commanded it with their very being.
Merir wasn't them. And his light wasn't really light at all.
"Doesn't matter," he muttered, shaking the doubt from his head. His footsteps sounded faintly across the floor, audible now that he had released the earlier lie, "My footsteps make no sound."*
Merir stopped in the middle of the room, standing straight with his hands leveled at his sides. He exhaled deeply, forcing his heart to steady itself against the rapid rhythm of his thoughts.
He closed his eyes.
"I say, therefore I am," he whispered. "This light is a shield."
---
The words rippled through the air, heavier than he expected. The system pulsed to life in his mind, its hum sharp and unyielding.
A golden wave of energy burst outward, setting the glyphs on the walls alight.
In his hands, the air grew dense—it shifted, warped, changed. His eyes snapped open as a broad, glowing form began to take shape: fractured at first, then growing more solid, more radiant.
A shield.
Its light flickered faintly, its edges jagged just like his earlier blade. But it existed—a radiant barrier of golden energy, thin but present.
Merir stared at it with wide eyes. His hands gripped its rough edge, and for a moment, his reflection against its shimmering surface caught his gaze. This wasn't like his siblings' shields. It was unstable, imperfect, its surface dancing with fractured tendrils of glowing light.
Yet there it was.
A small, tentative smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as realization dawned on him.
"I did it."
The voice of the system interrupted his thoughts, as cold and precise as ever:
"Minor Lie Successful. Lie Gauge: 80%. Lie Available for Recording. Would you like to proceed?"
"Yes," Merir said hurriedly, eager to lock this new power into his growing arsenal.
"Recording Lie: 'This light is a shield.' Lie Slots: [4/5]. Remaining Slots Available: 1."
The shield pulsed with faint energy as the recording took place, its unstable light humming softly in his hands. But exhaustion prickled at the edges of Merir's thoughts, growing heavier by the second. The longer he held the shield, the more its imperfections became apparent—it trembled, its edges rippled, and the pull on his body became undeniable.
Merir released the lie, letting the light fizzle out into the empty air. His shoulders sagged, his body trembling faintly under the weight of his repeated efforts.
"How do they do it so… easily?" He took several shallow breaths, trying to steady himself. "Every shield they conjure—or blade—it's perfect. They don't even flinch."
But no matter how much bitterness scratched at his chest, Merir couldn't deny the truth staring back at him:
His lies could imitate everything his family wielded. Even if flawed, even if fragile, they could shape power into something tangible.
It wasn't the strength of the Solaris family—it was his own.
---
Later, as the light of noon passed into the warm hues of the evening, Merir slouched quietly in his chair, his body still aching from the strain of summoning the shield.
Offense, concealment, defense. His arsenal of lies was growing—slowly, methodically. He flexed his fingers absentmindedly, thinking about tomorrow—about the training yard, the stares of his siblings, and the cold disapproval of his father.
"Just one more," he muttered to himself, leaning back against the cracked mirror, the faint glow of its reflection casting broken fragments of light across his form. "One more lie, and I'll prove them wrong."