It is said that truth and lie were born not as enemies, but as twins—each incomplete without the other.
Truth is noble, yes—pure in its clarity, sharp in its light. It uncovers, reveals, and demands we face the world as it is, not as we wish it to be.
But in that same light, it blinds.
The truth can wound, isolate, and weigh upon the soul like stone. To live entirely by it is to carry a burden few can bear.
And so, the lie was born—not to oppose the truth, but to soften its blow. Lies cradle where truth cuts.
They offer comfort when the heart is not ready, a shelter when the storm comes too soon.
And though they are condemned, they are also chosen—daily, quietly, even lovingly.
A man may lie to protect a friend. A mother may shield her child with kind falsehoods.
A lover may speak softly of "forever," knowing it may not be so. These are not betrayals, but fragments of a deeper truth—of love, of fear, of hope.
For truth alone cannot hold a life together, just as lies alone cannot give it meaning.
One gives form, the other gives feeling. And so it is in every soul—this dance between the two.
Call it contradiction, or call it balance. But understand this: to be a living being is to carry both. Not as a flaw, but as a necessity.
A Certain New Eridu Schoolar.
————
The final frames of Elise Laurent's retro-futuristic drama faded into black, leaving the Lumina Square Theater thrumming with the quiet energy of an audience still spellbound.
Applause gave way to murmurs as the credits rolled, the spell of the story lingering like the scent of buttered popcorn clinging to velvet seats.
From where I sat, ensconced in one of those plush chairs, I couldn't deny her genius.
Elise's vision was exceptional—each scene seamlessly interwoven, every performance sharpened to emotional precision.
Her use of light was masterful, transitioning from neon-drenched skylines to spectral voids, capturing the duality of New Eridu in both form and spirit.
The narrative struck a resonant chord with the city's undercurrent of unrest and longing.
A force of nature.
My Etheric timepiece gave a faint mechanical hum, a subtle reminder of the stakes I carried as my gaze settled on Elise in the front row.
Her auburn hair shimmered beneath the soft brilliance of the theatre light, her tailored blazer echoing the composure she so effortlessly exuded.
As the crowd began to scatter, chatter and footsteps merging into an indistinct hum, I rose.
My white dress shirt remained crisp despite the theater's warmth, my charcoal tie slightly loosened, just enough to appear relaxed.
Now or never.
I moved between rows, weaving through clusters of patrons clutching holo-tickets and novelty snacks shaped like Bangboo mascots.
"Ms. Laurent? Michael. It's an honour."
She turned with a start, her gaze sharpening, then softening with professional cordiality.
"Elise Laurent," she replied, extending a hand with measured grace.
Her voice held the cadence of a woman who directed not only films, but rooms.
"I was deeply impressed by your film," I said, tone measured but sincere.
"Every element—frame, lighting, performance—crafted with precision. A remarkable display of talent."
I let the compliment settle before pressing further.
"I'm truly grateful to your husband, Victor, for the opportunity at Laurent Enterprises. I get to see this magnificent creation."
"That opportunity led me to him, and in turn, to you."
Elise chuckled softly, the laugh velvet-smooth and genuine, though I caught the flicker of inquiry in her eyes.
"That's kind of you to say. Was there something in particular you wanted to ask?"
"There is," I said, my smile deepening.
"I was hoping to learn more—about your work, your perspective. There's a quiet spot nearby. Ideal for a conversation over coffee… or something stronger."
She agreed to accompany me after giving it some quick thought, maybe as a result of my bringing up my position.
She studied me for a moment, then gave a subtle nod.
"Sounds lovely. Lead the way."
We stepped out into the crisp morning of Lumina Square, where the aroma of roasted coffee mingled with ozone and the faint thrum of Ether-powered drones.
Vendors hawked glowing charms, and Sixth Street's festival ads flashed across holographic billboards overhead.
The city pulsed, alive and restless.
The restaurant was a nostalgic little gem tucked just off the main strip—retro neon signage casting soft hues of cyan and rose over polished booths and chrome fixtures.
Inside, the aroma of sizzling Ether-infused dumplings and rich coffee filled the air, intermingling with the subdued rhythm of New Eridu's shined beyond the frosted windows.
Elise sat across from me, her posture elegant despite the late hour, auburn hair swept into a careful updo.
Her eyes sparkled from our earlier exchange, still bright with the afterglow of laughter.
Comfortable—for now.
"That final scene," I began, leaning back, unfastening the top button of my shirt, "when the protagonist confronts their Hollow-tainted past… It was haunting. Your direction brought each frame to life."
She smiled, sipping her coffee, the clink of ceramic gentle.
"It's about finding the truth in their pain," she replied.
"We wanted to reflect the soul of New Eridu—its fractured light and shadowed despair. Lighting it was a nightmare."
"And yet, masterfully done," I replied, swirling my Ether-infused tea. It danced on the tongue—subtle, tinged with static.
"You have a rare gift. Your actors seemed to breathe through the screen."
She laughed, soft and low.
"Flattery suits you. But it's about trust, really. Getting them to believe in the world we build together."
Trust...
As the conversation dipped into a natural lull, I casually drew my phone.
The glow cast a pale halo across the table. With a subtle swipe, I revealed an image—just long enough to register—before it disappeared.
Her expression shifted instantly.
The warmth vanished.
Her back stiffened.
Her grip tightened on the cup.
"What was that?" she asked, voice low, coloured by dread.
I raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"What was that?" she asked, her voice now thin, threadbare with alarm.
I tilted my head.
"Pardon?"
"That image. The one you just… scrolled past. Where did you get it?"
Trigger pulled.
With a performance rehearsed to the millisecond, I scrolled back, hesitated, then turned the device toward her.
"This one?"
It was undeniable. A photograph—grainy but damning.
Elise, unmistakable, caught in the embrace of a man who was very clearly not Victor Laurent. Lips locked.
Shadows soft around them.
Her signature auburn hair haloed in red-gold light.
"No," she whispered, eyes wide, complexion paling.
"That's not possible…"
But it was—and if it surfaced, it would dismantle everything.
Her reputation as the ever-loyal wife. Her career.
Her standing.
All built on illusion.
One image, one carefully loaded bullet.
Through careful divination.
I'd orchestrated the convergence of circumstances.
I'd placed the lens. Manipulated probability.
Ensured fortune tilted in my favour.
And had erased the trail behind me like tides smoothing over footprints.
Her voice, quiet and cracked, broke the silence.
"Have you been planning this all along? To blackmail me?"
I leaned in, voice like silk drawn taut.
Her voice dropped, hoarse with disbelief.
"This was your goal? From the beginning? To… blackmail me?"
Cornered.
I offered a thin smile, humourless and exact.
"Blackmail is such a brutal word. I'm interested in truth, Elise. What could I possibly extract from you, when I already hold a position within your husband's empire?"
"I only want to understand," I continued, voice now low and almost sympathetic.
"Why would someone like you—admired, devoted, admired—risk annihilation for this?"
"Tell me honestly… and perhaps I can help."
She stared at me—searching for cruelty, for mercy, for a flaw in the construct of my smile.
Her breath faltered. Shoulders sagged under the crushing weight of exposure.
And then, slowly, she began to speak. Voice trembling. Truth unraveling.
———
She sighed, slow and unsteady, her gaze sinking to the delicate ripples trembling on the surface of my drink.
"It's not what you think, Michael,"she said at last, my voice quieter than she intended—threadbare, woven through with a vulnerability she usually kept caged.
"My life… it's not grand as you think."
—
Our family wasn't always like this.
I wasn't born into power—I inherited the illusion of it.
We were the Vellians.
Once a name of prestige, spoken in the same breath as Old Eridu's founding families.
My grandfather had drafted policy beside ministers.
My grandmother's galas filled society columns and hushed parlours.
Even as our foundations began to rot,drafting in the new age, we wore our lineage like ceremonial armour—gleaming, hollow, and entirely obsolete.
By the time I came into the world—the third child, the daughter, the afterthought—we were already falling.
Not in fire or spectacle, but in silence.
A slow, cultured decay.
The estate still stood, a monolith of what once was, perched at the city's margins where Hollow raids left scars like surgical incisions across old stone.
The chandeliers hadn't lit in a decade. The servants moved like shadows—fewer by the year.
Still, every inch of me was polished for display.
I was sculpted for courtrooms, not bedrooms—moulded into the perfect accessory to a vanishing name.
Cedric, my elder brother, bore the inheritance.
The duty.
The crown of ash.
I was trained to uphold the silhouette of grace: the walk, the voice, the unwavering posture that made people mistake obedience for dignity.
I didn't speak out.
I performed.
And yet... even then, I found cracks in the frame.
Behind the estate, wild vines overtook what had once been a curated garden.
Forgotten by the groundskeepers, it became a sanctuary—disordered, fragrant, defiantly alive.
And there, I met him.
Luca.
The maid's son.
A boy of no consequence in the eyes of high society.
Dirt under his fingernails. Ink stains on his sleeves.
He did not care that I was a Vellian. He never bowed.
Never watched his tone.
He spoke to me like I was real.
He sketched what I never dared name: freedom.
His notebooks were filled with life.
Not the life I lived—polished and brittle—but the breath of New Eridu in motion.
Neon markets dripping light across rusted steel.
Hollow-scorched alleyways where survivors laughed louder than they should.
He brought the city to me in graphite and charcoal.
We met in secret, of course.
Not out of shame—there was no shame in it—but because the walls around me were too old, too proud, too afraid.
I promised him something once.
When Cedric came of age, when the burden of legacy no longer tethered me, I would leave.
With Luca.
With nothing but our names and the will to begin again.
I believed it.
Until the collapse.
Cedric, in his desperation to save our dying name, invested the remnants of our fortune into an Ether-tech scheme—too revolutionary to question, too ambitious to trust.
A fabrication.
A con.
He swore it would resurrect us.
It buried us instead.
My father, already frail, collapsed when the truth surfaced.
A second heart attack left him bedridden, with eyes that no longer saw past regret.
My mother unravelled. She wandered the house like a widow before a funeral.
Servants fled. Debts arrived. Cedric was cast out, his name erased from the registry.
And I?
I stood at the centre of the ruin, draped in silk that no longer belonged to us.
That's when Victor Laurent appeared.
Not with pity—he never stooped to that—but with an offer.
A place within his world.
A name of iron in exchange for my own fractured one.
A path forward that led through media studios and state dinners instead of uncertainty and scandal.
In order to save what barely remained I accepted.
The world saw a girl reborn—Elise Laurent.
Visionary. Director. Public figure
But they didn't know she was a construction.
A palace built on a foundation of dust and compromise.
And then, years later—when I'd buried the garden and sealed away the girl within it—Luca found me again.