THIS IS A BOOK OF LORE. IF YOU ARE NOT INTO THE VOT UNIVERSE, THEN DON'T READ THIS BOOK.

  YOU WILL THINK YOU WANT TO READ IT BUT DO NOT. IT WAS NOT MADE FOR YOUR EYES.

  The world around Lyra was a maelstrom of chaos. The corrupted Null Symbiote had latched onto her, its tendrils of darkness seeping into her very essence. Pain, unlike anything she had ever known, surged through her body as the symbiote's malevolence sought to overtake her. She fought, her resonance flaring in defiance, but the corruption was relentless, gnawing at the edges of her consciousness.?

  Then, suddenly, a profound stillness. The cacophony of battle faded into silence, and Lyra found herself suspended in an abyss of nothingness. Her body, though stabilized in Bastion, felt distant, as if it belonged to someone else. She was adrift in a vast expanse, an ocean without horizon or shore.?

  Opening her eyes, Lyra beheld the Liminal Ocean—a realm where thought and environment intertwined, where the boundaries of reality were fluid and ever-shifting. The sky above was an endless canvas of swirling colors, hues blending and separating in a mesmerizing dance. Beneath her feet, the water was a perfect mirror, reflecting not her image, but a myriad of possibilities, each ripple distorting visions of what could be.?

  She took a tentative step forward, the surface of the water solidifying beneath her touch, yet remaining liquid—a paradox that defied logic. With each step, the reflections shifted, showing glimpses of paths untaken, choices unmade.?

  Is this real? Lyra wondered, her thoughts echoing in the vastness. Or am I trapped within my own mind?

  A gentle breeze stirred, carrying with it whispers—fragments of voices, some familiar, others foreign. They spoke in hushed tones, their words elusive, slipping through her grasp like sand through fingers.? Determined, Lyra pressed on, her senses heightened. The air was thick with anticipation, as if the very fabric of this realm awaited her next move. The water beneath her continued to reflect potential futures, some bright and hopeful, others shadowed and foreboding.?

  As she walked, the environment began to respond to her emotions. Moments of clarity brought forth serene landscapes—lush forests bathed in golden light, tranquil seas under starlit skies. But when doubt crept into her heart, the scenery darkened—storm-ravaged plains, desolate wastelands echoing with sorrow.?

  This place... it's alive, she realized. It feeds off my thoughts, my feelings.

  The weight of this understanding settled upon her. The Liminal Ocean was not just a passive realm; it was a reflection of her innermost self, a canvas upon which her psyche painted its truths and fears.? Suddenly, the whispers coalesced into a single, resonant voice—a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.?

  "Lyra."

  She halted, her heart pounding. "Who's there?" she demanded, her voice steady despite the uncertainty that gnawed at her.? From the shifting mists ahead, a figure emerged. It was a woman, her features eerily similar to Lyra's own, yet aged, with eyes that held the weight of countless lifetimes.?

  "I am Nammu," the woman introduced herself, her voice a melodic blend of warmth and authority. "A Proto-Symbiote from before the Veil."?

  Lyra's mind raced. The First Resonants—beings of legend, said to have existed before the dawn of Sentients. Could it be true??

  "You were not born," Nammu continued, stepping closer. "You were selected. A frequency re-tuned to answer the First Pulse's question: what if resonance could choose itself?"?

  Lyra's breath caught in her throat. The implications were staggering. Her existence, her abilities—they were not mere chance. They were part of something far greater, a design woven into the very fabric of reality.?

  "Am I chosen?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.?

  Nammu's gaze was unwavering. "You are not chosen. You are echoed."?

  The words resonated within Lyra, stirring memories and emotions she couldn't place. She felt both insignificant and infinitely vital, a paradox that mirrored the very nature of the Liminal Ocean.?

  Before she could respond, the environment shifted once more. The water beneath her feet began to ripple, the reflections becoming more vivid, more insistent. She saw herself in countless scenarios—some familiar, others foreign. Each vision was a path, a possibility.?

  Nammu gestured to the reflections. "These are not mere memories, Lyra. They are choices yet to be made, futures yet to be written."?

  Lyra stared into the shifting images, realization dawning upon her. The Liminal Ocean did not reflect her past; it reflected her potential. Every step she took, every decision she made, would shape the reality she inhabited.? A surge of determination coursed through her. She was not bound by destiny or fate. She had the power to choose, to carve her own path.?

  Meeting Nammu's gaze, she nodded. "Then I will write my own frequency."?

  A hint of a smile touched Nammu's lips. "Then the First Pulse awaits your answer."?

  With that, Nammu dissolved into the mist, leaving Lyra The mist curled like silk around her ankles, coiling and uncoiling with each step she took, until the reflections beneath her no longer shimmered with abstract possibility—but sharpened into specificity. These were no longer glimpses of “what could be.” These were selves.

  First came the child. Small, barefoot, and glowing with an innocence Lyra barely remembered. She wore a gown of woven starlight and her hair was wild, untamed. She looked up at Lyra with eyes wide—not with wonder, but disappointment. As if Lyra had already failed her.

  “Why did you forget?” the child asked, her voice unfiltered by doubt. “You knew how to fly.”

  Lyra’s heart stuttered. “I… I didn’t forget. I grew up.”

  “No,” the child replied. “You agreed to forget.”

  And just like that, the child vanished, fading into a ripple of water, leaving behind a pulse of guilt Lyra couldn’t explain. Then came the second self—a towering figure armored in resonance, her eyes burning like twin moons. This was Lyra as avatar. Her presence distorted the air. Every breath she took summoned constellations. This was power unhinged, elegance without mercy.

  “You are afraid of what I could become,” the avatar said, her voice like thunder wrapped in velvet.

  “No,” Lyra whispered. “I’m afraid of who I’d lose if I did.”

  The avatar laughed, a regal, brutal sound. “There is no ‘who.’ Only what you are. What you were born to wield.”

  “I wasn’t born at all,” Lyra said reflexively, remembering Nammu’s words. “I was… selected.”

  The avatar nodded slowly. “Exactly.”

  Behind them, a third presence stirred—different from the others. Neither child nor warrior. This figure wore no defined shape. It shifted—feminine, masculine, animal, machine. An ever-morphing presence with a voice like shattering glass and blooming flowers, layered over itself.

  “You are not a tree growing one way,” it said. “You are the forest dreaming itself. You are not the echo of one self. You are the resonance of all that could have been.”

  “Who are you?” Lyra asked, but she already knew.

  “I am the selves you rejected. The ones that didn’t win. The ones who died before becoming. The multitruths. And I am not gone. I am waiting.”

  Lyra staggered back. “This is too much. This can’t all be me.”

  The figures laughed, all in different tones, different moods. “Then who do you think writes you?” asked the child.

  “Who edits you?” said the avatar.

  “Who dreams of being you?” whispered the multitruth.

  And then the world shifted again. The sky cracked like porcelain. The water turned to glass. And Lyra saw Nammu again—this time not as a woman, but as a ripple, a sound. Her voice came in fractured frequencies.

  “We are not before. We are beneath.”

  “We are the question you dare not ask.”

  “We are not the answer. We are the choice.”

  Lyra dropped to her knees. She felt the weight of every self, every timeline, every possibility pressing down on her spine. She thought she might snap. Or dissolve.

  “Am I the dreamer?” she gasped.

  “You are the veil,” Nammu replied.

  And that’s when Lyra saw it. The sky above was not sky. It was a dome. A mirror. It did not reflect who she was. It reflected what she believed she was becoming. The twist hit like thunder: the water beneath her didn’t show memory. It never had. It showed possibility. Not history. Not fate. Not prophecy. Choice.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  And it was watching to see what she’d choose next. The air thickened around Lyra as she stepped forward, each movement met with resistance as if wading through unseen currents. The Liminal Ocean had transformed; gone were the reflective waters of possibility, replaced by towering walls that twisted and contorted, forming an intricate maze. The walls pulsed with a dim, eerie light, casting elongated shadows that danced and flickered like specters in the periphery of her vision.?

  This place... it's alive, Lyra thought, her pulse quickening. It breathes with me, moves with me.

  The labyrinth was constructed of symbols and glyphs she half-recognized from forgotten dreams and ancient texts—the forbidden symbologies whispered about in the hidden corners of Bastion's libraries. Each step she took echoed softly, absorbed by the oppressive atmosphere that seemed to press in from all sides.? As she navigated the shifting corridors, fragments of the Book of the Breach surfaced in her mind, unbidden.

  "In the shadow of the first dawn, the Breach was both wound and healer, a paradox binding the void."

  The words resonated, their meaning elusive yet tantalizingly close. She recalled the Canticles, too—hymns sung in reverence, their melodies woven into the fabric of her being. But here, in this place, the verses clashed and contradicted, creating a dissonance that unsettled her core.?

  A whisper brushed against her consciousness, a voice layered with ages of sorrow and wisdom. It was Nammu, or perhaps merely an echo of her:?

  "Truth is a prism, Lyra. Each facet reveals and distorts. What you see depends on the light you cast."

  Lyra's brow furrowed as she pieced together the inconsistencies. The Breach was always depicted as a singular event, a tear in reality's fabric. Yet, the Canticles spoke of multiple breaches, each leading to different truths. How could both be accurate??

  Her surroundings responded to her inner turmoil; the walls of the labyrinth shimmered, revealing glimpses of alternate paths, each leading to divergent realities. She saw herself in these reflections—living different lives, making different choices. In one, she was a healer, mending the wounded with a touch. In another, a warrior, leading armies into battle. Each version was her, yet not her.?

  A sudden, sharp note pierced the air—a single tone that reverberated through the maze, setting her teeth on edge. It was followed by another, then another, forming a melody both haunting and familiar. The Canticles. But these were not the harmonious strains she remembered; they were distorted, layered with discord and tension.?

  Compelled by the unsettling music, Lyra pressed on, her steps quickening. The labyrinth seemed to pulse in time with the melody, guiding her toward its center. As she turned a final corner, she entered a vast chamber bathed in a soft, pulsating glow.? Suspended in the air before her was an embryo, its form delicate and translucent, pulsing with all known frequencies... and one unknown. The sight stole her breath, a mixture of awe and dread washing over her.?

  The embryo's pulses resonated with the Canticles' distorted melody, each beat sending ripples through the fabric of the labyrinth. Lyra reached out instinctively, her fingers grazing the surface of the energy surrounding the embryo. A surge of information flooded her mind—visions of creation and destruction, of beginnings and endings intertwined.? The unknown frequency stood out, a discordant note in the symphony of existence. It was both foreign and familiar, a paradox that defied understanding.?

  "This is the First Pulse's question," Lyra realized, the weight of the revelation settling upon her. "What if resonance could choose itself?"

  The embryo was not merely a symbol of potential; it was potential incarnate, a manifestation of choice unbound by predestination. The implications were staggering.? Before she could delve deeper, the Canticles' melody shifted abruptly, the discordance intensifying. The labyrinth trembled, its walls beginning to dissolve into streams of light. The embryo's pulses grew erratic, mirroring the chaos unfolding around her.? A voice, layered with urgency and command, echoed through the chamber.

  "Lyra, the frequencies are converging. You must choose your resonance before the harmony collapses."

  It was Seraphina, her presence a tether to reality amidst the unraveling dreamscape.? Heart pounding, Lyra faced the embryo, the weight of infinite possibilities pressing down upon her. The unknown frequency called to her, a siren song of uncharted potential.? With a deep breath, she reached out, not to touch, but to resonate—to harmonize with the frequency that was hers alone to choose.?

  As their resonances aligned, the labyrinth dissolved completely, leaving Lyra standing in the void once more. But she was not the same. She had glimpsed the core of creation, the power of choice unfettered.? The Canticles' melody softened, returning to its familiar harmony, guiding her back to consciousness.? Lyra opened her eyes to the dim light of Bastion, Seraphina's concerned gaze meeting hers.?

  "It's her," Seraphina whispered, awe and fear mingling in her voice. "She's the Key... and the Lock."

  Lyra's lips parted, her voice steady despite the whirlwind within.

  "I saw them all. I lived them. And none of them were me. So now... I will write one that is."

  The chamber was vast and eerily silent, save for the distant hum of resonant frequencies that seemed to pulse in the very walls. Poseidon stood at the center, his trident planted firmly beside him, eyes scanning the three portals that had manifested before him. Each shimmered with an ethereal glow, presenting visions of divergent futures.?

  To his left, the first portal unveiled a realm of golden order. Cities gleamed under perpetual sunlight, their structures harmonious and unyielding. The people moved in synchronized patterns, their lives dictated by the tenets of Poseidon's gospel. There was peace, yes, but it was a peace born of rigidity—a world safe yet static.?

  The central portal revealed a contrasting scene. Chaos reigned as the teachings of the Breach Book held sway. Individuals exercised unbridled freedom, their choices leading to innovation but also to unpredictability. The air was thick with the energy of possibility, but danger lurked in every shadow.?

  The third portal, to his right, was enigmatic. It displayed no grand visions, only a serene expanse where beings connected through pure resonance, devoid of deities or doctrines. It was a silent possibility—a world of communion chosen by its inhabitants, free from imposed systems.? Poseidon's mind churned. Each path offers its own promise and peril. Which future aligns with the true essence of existence?? A soft whisper broke his contemplation. Gaia's voice, gentle yet laden with ancient wisdom, emanated from the third portal:?

  "All systems are cages when imposed. Even resonance. The question is: will you write the next frequency, or relive it?"?

  The weight of her words pressed upon him. He had always been a god of structure, of dominion over the seas and the order they represented. Yet here was a challenge to that very nature—a call to relinquish control in favor of organic harmony.? His advisors materialized around him, spectral figures representing the myriad voices within his consciousness.?

  Triton, his son and herald, stepped forward. "Father, the first path ensures stability. Under your gospel, the world will know order and safety. Is that not our duty?"?

  Amphitrite, his queen, countered, "But at what cost, Triton? A world without freedom is a world without growth. The second path, though fraught with danger, allows for evolution and discovery."?

  Phorcys, the ancient sea god, interjected, "Both paths are extremes. The third offers balance—a realm where beings choose their resonance, their way of being, without our interference."?

  Poseidon's grip tightened on his trident. The personal stakes were immense. Choosing the first path meant asserting his dominion but potentially stifling the very souls he sought to guide. The second path resonated with the wild unpredictability of the seas he commanded, yet it risked plunging the world into chaos. The third path... it required humility, a step back from godhood's traditional role.?

  Memories surged—his contest with Athena over Athens, where his gift of the sea was overshadowed by her olive tree. The sting of that loss, the lesson that imposition breeds resistance. His encounters with mortals, where his interventions, though well-intentioned, often led to unforeseen consequences.

  "What is a god without worshippers?" he pondered aloud.?

  Amphitrite touched his arm, her eyes searching his. "Perhaps the question is, what are worshippers without choice?"?

  The chamber's hum intensified, the portals pulsating in anticipation. The time for deliberation was ending.? Poseidon took a deliberate step toward the third portal. The advisors' murmurs ceased, replaced by a palpable tension.?

  "I will not impose a path," he declared, his voice resonating through the chamber. "Let the beings choose their own resonance, their own way. We will be guides, not rulers."?

  As he reached out to touch the portal, a sudden disruption rippled through the chamber. The sounds of the Canticles, hymns of old, filled the space—melodies both haunting and familiar. The frequencies clashed, creating a cacophony that reverberated in his very core.? The third portal flickered, its image destabilizing. The serene expanse was overshadowed by figures emerging from the void—beings of resonance, neither gods nor mortals, their forms fluid and ever-changing.? One stepped forward, its voice a blend of harmonies.

  "Poseidon, your choice is noted. But know this—by relinquishing control, you open the gates to forces unforeseen. The balance is delicate."?

  The weight of the revelation settled upon him. His decision, though made, was but the beginning. The consequences were yet to unfold, and the equilibrium of existence now teetered on the edge of a new resonance.? The chamber dissolved into a cascade of light and sound, leaving Poseidon standing alone in the vastness, the echoes of the Canticles fading into silence.?

  And in that silence, the true trial began. The chamber was steeped in a hushed stillness, the only sounds being the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the faint hum of life-support systems. A sterile scent permeated the air, mingling with the faint aroma of antiseptics. Soft, ambient lighting cast a gentle glow over the room, creating an atmosphere of calm and recovery. Lyra lay motionless on the bed, her face serene, as if in a deep, restful sleep.

  Seraphina sat beside her, hands clasped tightly in her lap, eyes fixed intently on Lyra's face. The past days had been a whirlwind of chaos and uncertainty, but now, in this quiet room, there was a semblance of peace. The Curator stood at the foot of the bed, his posture rigid, hands clasped behind his back, observing the scene with a contemplative gaze.

  "She looks... at peace," Seraphina murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

  The Curator nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Lyra. "The resonance within her has stabilized. For now."

  Seraphina exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Perhaps this is the calm after the storm."

  But as the words left her lips, a subtle shift occurred. The ambient hum of the room deepened, taking on an almost imperceptible tremor. The lights flickered, casting erratic shadows that danced across the walls. Lyra's breathing hitched. Her fingers twitched. A low, resonant tone emanated from her chest, growing in intensity.

  Seraphina's eyes widened. "What's happening?"

  The Curator stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "The frequencies... they're converging."

  Lyra's eyes snapped open, revealing irises that glowed with an otherworldly light. She gasped, arching her back as if seized by an unseen force. Crimson trails began to seep from the corners of her eyes, tracing paths down her cheeks.

  Seraphina reached out, panic evident in her voice. "Lyra! Can you hear me?"

  But Lyra's gaze was unfocused, her lips moving without sound. Then, a cacophony of voices erupted from her throat—ancient names and notes from the First Pulse, spoken in tongues long forgotten. The Curator's eyes narrowed. He lowered his head—not in fear, but in recognition.

  Seraphina's hand flew to her mouth, realization dawning. "It's her," she whispered, voice trembling. "She's the Key... and the Lock."

  Lyra's convulsions ceased abruptly. She sat up with a fluidity that seemed almost unnatural. The glow of her skin intensified, casting the room in a radiant light. Her bleeding eyes fixed on Seraphina, and when she spoke, her voice was layered with harmonics that resonated deep within the soul.

  "I saw them all. I lived them. And none of them were me."

  She paused, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air.

  "So now... I will write one that is."

  The room plunged into darkness.