Elara stood there, his usual smug, condescending smirk completely gone, replaced by a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. He stared at his creation, at the golden light emanating from its chest, at the flicker of genuine, independent consciousness in its eyes, and his carefully constructed world began to crumble.
"No," he whispered, his voice a hoarse, strangled sound. "This is not… this is not part of the plan."
The Vessel just floated there, its gaze unwavering, its expression a mixture of profound sadness and a new, dawning understanding. It had a soul now, a borrowed, fragmented, and deeply broken soul, but a soul nonetheless. And it knew, with a certainty that was as absolute as its own, newfound existence, that its father, its creator, was the source of its pain.
