Angel Lethira

She was not made to be seen. Where Astraeon was the warning, Lethira was the omission—the line the Goddess did not write, the breath intentionally unsaid. Crafted in the instant after prophecy, she was given a single paradoxical command: Observe what must not know it is observed. Lethira walked creation by subtraction. Light bent around her. Sound forgot to touch her. Even divine awareness slid past as though she were a thought abandoned mid-sentence. To look directly at her was to lose the memory of why you had looked. This was why she alone could approach the Hollow Genesis. She did not travel to it. She allowed herself to be misremembered by reality until she stood where it almost was. There, space behaved like a half-recalled dream. Stars flickered between existence and intention. A mountain became the idea of stone, then less than that. Time tried to count forward and failed, starting again as if embarrassed. And at the center of the wrongness, something vast shifted—not moving, but reconsidering. The Hollow Genesis was not awakening. It was editing. Lethira felt no fear; fear required identity, and she held hers loosely. Instead, she recorded absences: vanished seconds, erased colors, entire histories thinning like worn fabric. Each observation cost her. The more she understood it, the less defined she became. Already her hands passed through themselves when she forgot to concentrate. She could not report in words. Messages would collapse under scrutiny. So she wove her findings into small impossibilities scattered across the world—clocks that skipped, mirrors that showed unfamiliar stars, children born knowing languages no one spoke. Clues. Breadcrumbs for mortals. Because the Goddess must not see the threat too clearly. Because divinity would try to fix it. Because being noticed was exactly what the Hollow Genesis required. Lethira continued to fade, a spy dissolving into the act of watching. If she succeeded, no one would ever know she existed.