"Do you remember? The very first word you learned."

  Mars asked, tilting his glass.

  Elion shifted his gaze, his eyes reflecting nothing.

  "Radiant. Shining, brilliant."

  Mars nodded, satisfied.

  The religious school had been nestled in the lower chambers of Central Shelter, Zone 2.

  Stark walls of luminous gray-white, floors of translucent reinforced polymer.

  Children wore identical pale uniforms and recited identical words, their voices a monotonous chorus.

  "Radiance is divine goodness, life itself," the Instructor had proclaimed.

  "Darkness is corruption.

  The Mother's Light cannot penetrate its depths."

  Elion had never echoed those words.

  At five, he'd received a sharp blow across his knuckles for casting shadows on his palm.

  "Never court the darkness. It is impurity," the Instructor had hissed.

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  The curriculum was exacting.

  Religious Science explored the sacred dispersion and refraction of Light, the fundamental correlation between luminous waves and life-sustenance.

  Religious Philosophy instilled humanity's divine obligation to maintain order and purity according to the Mother's divine will.

  Even Mathematics served as time to memorize sacred ratios, with the concept of periodicity—reverently called 'The Rhythm of Light'—woven through every equation.

  Mars had thrived in that environment.

  He memorized doctrine faster than anyone, his voice crystal-clear when reciting "May the Light become you" during morning devotionals.

  Elion, by contrast, remained silent.

  He never questioned during instruction, never volunteered responses.

  Yet behind his stillness, he absorbed everything, remembered everything.

  They belonged to the same unit. They slept in identical wall-recessed beds, consumed identical nutrient portions at precisely scheduled intervals.

  The children addressed each other as "Bright Brother" and "Little Ray"—performing their roles as Children of the Light.

  No one ever bestowed these titles upon Elion. Only Mars occasionally did, but always with a hint of irony that transformed the words into something else entirely.

  Now Mars rotates his cup slowly, studying Elion across the table.

  "You've grown even more silent than before." The glass turns methodically.

  Light fractures through the clear liquid, creating distorted patterns on the table.

  Elion watches the light's dance.

  Wordless.

  "Elion."

  Mars's voice drops to a near-whisper.

  Elion offers no response.

  His silence exists partly because words have become unnecessary luxuries, partly because language itself has failed him.

  Words belonged to the realm of Light, and he found himself increasingly estranged from that luminous kingdom.