Chapter 1: Elena
The sun had barely crested the rim of the Osomeda mountains when I opened my eyes.
Dawn’s first light always stirred something within me—a deep thrum in my chest that resonated with the ancient wards laced across Solaris like threads of golden fire.
As always, the warmth of the light woke me before the touch of human hands.
Even before Heira’s soft knock came, I was already rising, my bare feet cool against the marble floor of my private sanctum.The scent of sweet orange and basil had already filled the air; incense burned low and steady in brass dishes by the eastern-facing window.
Heira entered first, as always. Wordless. Efficient. My attendant had been with me since she was a young girl, and I counted her as a friend, and confidant. Her hair braided with beads of sunstone, her saffron robes perfectly pressed. She held my ceremonial robe over one arm — crimson today, with a stitched phoenix of golden thread spreading across the chest and down one side, the wings tipped in shimmering silver.
Josephina followed, quieter than usual. I murmured a blessing over her as she handed me my sun-staff. The power stirred in my palm the moment my fingers closed around the lacquered wood. The golden core within pulsed once—alive. It always recognized my touch.
By the time we stepped into the Temple courtyard, the sunlight had bathed the white and gold stone in brilliance. I stood for a long moment before the gates, letting the fire in the sky burn across my skin, listening to the sacred hum that echoed faintly through the columns.
The grand Temple of the Sun rose majestically around me, its towering spires and gleaming golden domes reflecting the brilliant rays of the midday sun.
The city lay below—my city. Solaris, City of Light.
A flight of stairs carved into the mountain wound its way from the Temple gates down into the beating heart of the city. Today, like every morning, I walked them without escort. Not because it was required. Because it was tradition.
Sun Paladins bowed as I passed, their gold-trimmed armor gleaming. Vendors along the market street bowed lower, some murmuring prayers, others holding up baskets of fruit or flowers for blessings.
I touched each offering lightly, murmuring benedictionsunder my breath, the power flowing gently from my fingers—a brush of golden warmth. Nothing flashy. I saved spectacle for the desperate.
A child stepped from behind his mother’s skirts, limping. His leg bent awkwardly inward, the signs of an old injury healed poorly. He looked up at me with the unselfconscious reverence that only children could muster. His mother stammered something, tears in her eyes.
I crouched.
“What’s your name, little sun?”
“Marin,” he whispered, wide-eyed.
I placed my hand over the boy’s knee, letting the heat of the sun pool at my palm, slow and gentle like honey poured over stone. He hissed at first—always there was pain in healing—and then the bones realigned. I felt it in the marrow, the clicking of the broken made whole.
He gasped. Took a tentative step. Then another. And then he ran, straight into his mother’s arms.
The crowd burst into murmurs—reverent, joyful, awed.
Somewhere, a vendor dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to the cobbled street.
It wasn’t the first healing I’d done this week. It wouldn’t be the last. But that moment—the way the mother clutched the boy to her chest as if he were newborn again—it stayed with me.
“Blessed be the light,” someone murmured. And a chorus answered.
Blessed be the light.
I continued down into the market square, where golden banners rippled in the wind and the air smelled of cinnamon bread, roasting meat, and crushed lemongrass. The market in the Dawnward Quarter sprawled across a dozen stone-paved streets, alive with the color and rhythm of a city at peace.
For now.
I visited the bakers first. Each of them offered tokens—the first bread, the first cakes—and I shared each blessing willingly, touching flour-dusted brows and giving quiet thanks for the harvest. Though this year’s grain had come scarce. I could feel the weight of it, subtle but steady, like the pressure of a storm not yet on the horizon.
“Tell the headman,” I said to one of the millers, “to have his accounts brought to the Temple. If the drought has bitten deeper than you let on, we will open the western vaults.”
She wept as she nodded. I left her with my touch lingering behind, a flicker of sunfire that warmed her to the bone.
From the market, I passed into the Plaza of Petitions. Here the air grew quieter, heavy with incense and hope. Dozens waited behind woven screens for their chance to speak with a priest or paladin—confessions, disputes, long-held grudges presented for divine guidance.
