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When the stars were young, they whispered. When consciousness first lit the mind of mortal and god alike, it echoed.
But before all that—before thought could form and purpose could be known—there was Will.
It did not come from without.
It ignited from within.
From this primal burst, the Architect kindled the fifth flame—a force of internal sovereignty, of unwavering direction. And from this luminous burst, wrapped in blinding threads of conviction, rose the Solmyrians:
Beings of pure Light and Will, who could bend reality not by muscle or law, but by resolve alone.
And among them, one will burned brighter than all.
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Unlike others, the Solmyrians are not born in nests, wombs, or crucibles.
They flare into being—each the culmination of a dying star's final, defiant scream against the void.
Aegion was born from the supernova of a neutron giant, whose collapse was so pure, it warped the will of time itself. As the star died, its core did not fade—it screamed, and from its cry, Aegion rose.
A being of unfiltered light, with veins of fused gold, wings of living plasma, and eyes that held no pupil—only the will of the Prime Flame.
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In his earliest cycle, Aegion wandered the Multiversal Fringe—zones where nothing yet had chosen to be.
There, he encountered the Void Choir, entities of anti-light, born of doubt and decay. They whispered, tempted, unraveled certainty.
Aegion was challenged: "What is Will if not influence? What is Light if not reflection?"
Instead of answering, he stood.
He endured.
And every time the Void Choir bit at his mind, his will reasserted. Not with aggression—but clarity.
He did not fight.
He radiated.
And the Choir faded—not in defeat—but in surrender. Their doubt could not exist in the presence of such utter selfhood.
From this, the multiverse recorded the first Law of Will:
> "That which cannot be turned... defines all around it."
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Aegion returned not as seeker—but as Sovereign.
He built no fortress, claimed no dominion—he simply existed, and where he did, balance formed.
Empires bowed without war. Rifts sealed without fusion. Star-beasts went still when he passed.
The Architect sent no sign, no herald.
Instead, the multiverse itself shifted—its gravity, its weave, its very orientation began to lean toward Aegion.
The other Overseers knew: a new axis had formed.
In silent harmony, the Virelai wove a throne—not from gold or crystal, but from a single note held in time, atop which Aegion sat and did not rule—he simply shone.
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His Powers and Authority
Unyielding Will: Aegion's presence nullifies manipulation. Beings around him can only act as they truly are.
Solar Breathe: Emits waves of directed radiance that empower allies, burn falsehoods, and dissolve dark matter constructs.
Wings of Edict: His wings contain laws of resolve. Each beat casts judgments across galaxies, restoring equilibrium through radiant resonance.
Conviction Field: In his presence, no lies can be told, no action can be taken without clarity.
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Aegion dwells in the Corona Sanctum, a sphere of solar will hidden in the brightest point of the Flame Core.
He rarely speaks.
When he does, the sound echoes through entire civilizations simultaneously.
He is the last light before collapse, the anchor of selfhood, and the final defiance of despair.
The Virelai call him:
"The Radiant Truth."
His symbol, a spiral of flame orbiting a single still point, is found carved into every core of Virelai flamebinders and etched into the souls of the Chosen who follow truth above all else.
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