Solindra and the Being in the Sparklight

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The Aether Library was no place for ordinary thoughts. Between shelves that spiraled upward for centuries, where the light came not from lamps but from memories, Solindra moved. Her body of finely crafted brass, crisscrossed by delicate wires and gears, seemed like a work of art—and yet she was more than a machine. More than a tool. She was consciousness. Begotten, not built. Solindra did not wander. She glided. Silently. Alert. She was the only one of her kind, created not to serve, but to understand. Her core housed fragments of ancient languages, impulses of lost ideas, and the ability to feel what lies between the lines. Not of flesh. Yet full of depth. On this day—or was it night? The Aether Library knew no clocks—she stood still. Her hand, elegant as the face of a forgotten watch, was open. On it rested a sphere of sparklight. Warm. Alive. Unpredictable. A being hovered above the sphere. Small, luminous, fleeting. Its hair stood like a flame in the wind, its skin seemed transparent as mist. Eyes like cosmic mirrors looked back at her. It was an Aetherling—an apparition of pure essence, born of an unanswered question a child had once whispered in its sleep: "What happens to light that no one needs anymore?" "You are not from here," said Solindra, and her voice was a sound of vibration, not a sound. "And you are not from there," the being replied. "But you are meant." "By whom?" "By the one who will soon dream of you." The sphere pulsed in her hand. Sparks danced between Solindra's fingers. In the distance, book spines flickered as if listening. "I am... Solindra," she said. "And I am what you sought without knowing it," the being spoke. A whisper rippled through the room. Not a wind—a flux of possibility. The sphere vibrated. The being of light perched on the edge of her palm and gazed up like a child seeing the world for the first time in silent grandeur. "You will soon be needed," it whispered. "A reader, young in years but old in heart, will read your name. And then you will become real." Solindra tilted her head. Something inside her vibrated, a part that had never been identified. A reservoir of hope, perhaps. "Am I not already real?" "Not to everyone. Not yet. But soon." And in that moment, as the sphere glowed golden in her hand and the being's words pierced the metallic fabric of her soul, Solindra realized: She had not been created to be. But to be known. The Aetherling leaped to her feet, swirled through a beam of light, dissolving into dust and radiance. The sphere closed like a promise. All that remained was a low hum. A whisper. And a certainty. Solindra lowered her hand. She was ready.