Run, rabbit, run
Dig that hole, forget the sun
When, at last, the work is done
Don''t sit down, it''s time to dig another one
The hour of the Earthbound Star arrived.
Hyperion’s light deepened to an autumnal gold as the Clergy proclaimed the end of the workday.
The laborers set their tools down and began their silent passage to the main causeway, falling into step in an unbroken stream of bodies, like ants returning to their nest.
As Phaeton passed beneath the shadow of a colossal bust of the Great Star, a prickling crawled over him. Hyperion''s wrathful visage loomed beside the causeway, etched with intricate sigils of a long-forgotten language of power, blending divine majesty with primal terror. The god’s hollowed eyes burned with an internal fire, weighing the devotion of those marching below.
Its mouth, frozen in a soundless roar, spoke of creation and destruction, of life given and taken with a glance.
A shudder ran through Phaeton as he tore his gaze from the deity''s smoldering eyes.
He senses my doubt, sees my faith wavering.
Phaeton’s lips moved in quiet supplication, invoking the mantra instilled in every soul from childhood.
"Radiant Sovereign, golden gaze,
Your warmth grants life, guides our ways.
From dawn to dusk, our hearts You keep,
In Your light, our fortunes leap.
Mighty hand that shapes our days,
Watchful eye that never strays.
We are children of the sun,
In Your grace, our lives are spun."
Stepping beyond the monument''s shadow, he released a slow breath. The sinister coil of the apostate''s call slackened. His heart rekindled, and he lifted his gaze upon Hyperion''s glorious works with renewed faith.
Two columns over, Old Father shuffled forward. His tanned neck, creased by the years, was cracked and leathery as iguana skin. Even in Phaeton''s earliest memories, he had been ancient in appearance—yet he always maintained a joyous spirit.
Phaeton’s childhood memories of the elder echoed with laughter, of sitting cross-legged by the fire as Old Father spun tales like golden threads, acted out with enchanting shadow plays on the wall .
But now, something had changed, and it cut deep into Phaeton’s heart.
Old Father bore himself with the same listless resignation as the others did—stooped, aching, resigned. Another grey ghost drifting through the motions.
Phaeton feared the sight of his childhood friend taken by the Glare had broken something. A lifetime of sipping poison, and that had been the final gulp—one that shut him down, body and spirit.
The workers wended through New Tenochtitlan’s tenement like water flowing around jagged rocks. Sinuous shadows spilled through the maze of roads and causeways, pooling into alleys. Smoke from the blighted tenement had finally gone, but the smoldering reek remained.
"God above, how long’s that stench gonna linger? " Talos grumbled.
"Mind your feet and keep your nose''s business to itself,” hissed a fellow laborer. “Lest you fancy joining those that burn."
“Oh I canny think I’d much mind,” Talos replied. “Tis my deepest desire to offer my heart to Hyperion so’s I can enter the Garden—same as yours, eh, brother Blix?”
Blix snorted. "If we be blessed at all, the Great Star will leave your heart and take that perfidious tongue, cad."
"Oh, Blix, dear Blix," Talos crooned, "were that to happen, your wife’s wails would have you begging the Jaguars take your ears next."
Laughter bubbled down the line unchecked, even Blix joined in. Phaeton clutched his gut, tears filling his eyes. It felt good—human—to laugh among the fellows. Like a knot untying in his soul.
But the moment was shattered by an imperious caw.
"What’s all this?"
The Jaguar’s towering form surfaced above the crowd.
He dressed in the austere garb of the warrior class, a light pelt clinging to his muscled frame, offering light protection without hindering movement. His bronze helmet, shaped like a snarling jaguar frozen in permeant challenge, gleamed in the dusky light. Slung over his back, a golden shield blazed with the visage of the Heavenly Marksman.
But it was the weapon in his hand that commanded attention— a freshly forged atlatl, its obsidian tip glistening ominously.
The warrior’s hoggish nose flared, inhaling the scent of fear. Beneath the headdress, coal-black eyes smoldered, hunting for the source of insolence.
"Who''s responsible for this rabble?" the Jaguar demanded, his voice simmering with hot bloodlust.
The workers kept their heads bowed, feet itching to move forward, yet rooted in fear. The stalked down the line, his black eyes scanning the laborers excitedly, reveling in his power over them.
A middle-aged woman flinched as he suddenly pressed his weapon against her chest.
"Was it you, hag? Did you sully the moment with a jape?"
She trembled, shaking her head, her gazed fixed on the spear tip lodged between her pendulous breasts.
The Jaguar sneered and moved on. His weapon drifted, searching, testing, until it found its next prey. The cat held the atlatl’s sharp edge to the throat boy, barely into manhood. The youth gulped nervously as the weapon''s razor edge shelved below his Adam''s apple.
"Or was it you, filthy moppet? Does the Great Star''s glory amuse you, worm?"
"N-no, proud one—not I," the boy stammered, sweat beading down his brow. "I did not laugh with the others. I keeps my mind in the Garden with He Who Goes Forth Shining."
The Jaguar sharply sucked air through his yellow teeth. "Lying toad... Shall we test the truth of your words?"
The blade pressed deeper. Blood ran over its black edge. The boy winced, his jaw clenching, but did not speak.
Before Phaeton could react, Talos moved, stepping out of line within bounds of the Jaguar''s ire.
"It weren''t him, noble one," Talos declared. "Weren''t no one else neither. All gathered are as devoted as you—though lacking in your strength and wisdom."
The warrior lowered his weapon, turning his full attention to Talos, and drinking the sight of him through those twin black voids beneath the helmet''s fence of golden teeth.
"Am I to understand myself surrounded by madmen who make mirth mindlessly and without cause?"
"No, none here would dare mock the gravity of this hour. But words aren''t the only voice our bodies have. We who labor tirelessly toward this moment of reflection can become so exhausted that our minds lose control of the body''s baser instincts.”
Talos paused, letting the tension build. “We were deep in contemplation when, unbidden, a body''s primal voice spoke in that unmistakable tone no creature can suppress. Someone, I saw not who, broke wind—loud and blasphemous. We were so stunned by this sulfuric outburst, so drained in mind, body, and spirit, that what followed was unavoidable. One laughed, then another, and soon the laughter spread like wildfire, infecting us all—until you arrived, praise Hyperion. Your presence is a welcome relief, guiding us back to our better selves by your example."
Phaeton fought a losing battle against the laughter fighting for release. His comrades struggled similarly, but their mirth evaporated when the Jaguar''s hand shot out, seizing Talos by the throat. Their faces were mere inches apart, the Jaguar''s breath hot and menacing.
"Do you mock me, scum?" the Jaguar snarled.
Talos managed to stammer out a response. "Never! Just answering the brave one’s question by telling truths."
The Jaguar drew a dagger from his tunic, jabbing its cold tip into Talos''s side. "Fancy yourself a truth-teller, do you?" he sneered. "You claim there''s nothing but divine light and purity within you? No festering thoughts lurking in the shadows of your soul?"
The blade bit deeper. Talos cried sharply as blood beaded down its obsidian edge and dripped on the sand.
The Jaguar leaned in, savoring Talos''s pain, "Maybe we should open you up and see?"
"Stop this."
Old Father''s voice rang out clear and strong. He elbowed through the crowd, his gnarled, bronzed hands pushing onlookers aside with the strength of a younger man. "I''ve seen one friend sent to the Garden today—I will not stomach another."
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Old Father’s eyes blazed. The Jaguar hesitated; his dagger dropped from Talos''s side, but his grip remained on his throat. His cruel, black eyes regarded the his former teacher with dislike and uncertainty.
"This does not concern you, old man," the Jaguar growled.
"Now who''s lying?" Old Father shot back. "You well know I''ve always looked after the youths—even you, Prys."
"That time has passed, gaffer. And you would do well to use the proper honorifics when addressing me. I renounced my given name when I became a warrior of the Heavenly Marksman."
Old Father scoffed, stepping closer. Prys’s grip slackened with each step.
He stooped three heads taller now, several stones heavier, but his fear of the man who raised him had lost none of its potency.
"Call yourself what you will, Prys,” Old Father said, “I can see you are still the spiteful brat whose bottom I used to cane for picking on the little ones and stealing rations.”
Prys’s jaw clenched.
“You were wretched then, and you are wretched now. Gilded armor and a lofty title will never change that. Hyperion knows your heart as well as I—a black thing that repels even His light."
Old Father and the Jaguar remained locked in a battle of wills, neither giving ground.
Suddenly, Talos collapsed. A strangled gasp tore from his throat as he clutched his side.
Prys curled his lips into a sneer. Phaeton imagined he could see the Jaguar’s dark thoughts swimming in the depths of his cold eyes.
"I swear, I will repay the lessons you taught me long ago," he growled.
Old Father didn’t flinch. "If only some of them had stuck, you might have been a decent man.” He folded his arms, unflinching. “I am still ambassador to the laborers. Shall I bring this incident to the Clergy and see how your abuse of one of Blessed Hyperion''s finest mixers goes over? Think your wounded pride outweighs the great works?"
Prys grunted. The Jaguar sheathed his dagger and holstered his atlatl.
"One day, the Priestly Caste will send me for you," he muttered. "They already pine for an excuse to rid the warrens of your meddling."
Old Father shrugged. "Perhaps they will. Until then, leave my laborers alone."
With a final sneer, Prys pivoted sharply and strode away; the crowd parted hastily from his path.
When he was gone, Old Father extended a hand to Talos. The younger man accepted it reluctantly, his face strained with embarrassment.
"What am I to do with you?" Old Father lamented, examining the gash on Talos''s side. A superficial thing that bled much, but posed no threat. "How many times must I warn you against wagging that foolish tongue so freely?"
Talos grumbled. "I had the matter well in hand, sir.”
"Clearly," Old Father replied dryly. "Oh, quit whinging – you will live. Now, back in line, all of you—the sermon will begin soon."
New Tenochtitlan was a city of four great roads, each stretching toward a distinct purpose.
The southern road led to the worksites, where tenementmen labored under Hyperion’s watchful gaze. To the north, it climbed toward the Grand Temple of Helios, its gleaming dome visible for miles. The western road led to the rectories and the Manse, where the clergy lived, while the eastern route carried travelers to the adjacent farms, reservoirs, viaducts, and markets, the supporting organs of the city.
Yet within the city, all four converged upon a single, sacred heart—the Court of Dusk.
Carved from living rock, the elliptical amphitheater could be seen from all four corners of the city, its colossal arcades, arches, and walls rising like a mountain. From a distance, it resembled a great chalice, its wide-open rim and yawning toward heavens, as if waiting to be filled by the Great Star’s blessing.
Within its bounds, the Court could house a million souls.
A tide of humanity swelled into the holy vessel, thick as reeds, their exhausted faces bathed in dusk’s rusty glow. Twelve vast galleries ascended in sweeping tiers to accommodate the masses. Broad corridors divided the space, reinforcing the seating order.
Closest to the arena, the Clerics reposed in authoritative stillness, dressed in their ceremonial red robes drinking mead and gossiping idly while rectory servants fanned them with peacock feathers.
Above them, administrators and other officials sat on plush cushions, discussed city business. Each boasting of their latest achievements, their projects, their influence, jocking for power and position between sips of wine.
Then came the Jaguars—guardians and enforcers of the state. They sat in high-backed, oak seats embedded in the alcoves ringed around the Court. They drank atole and sat in silence.
Higher still, beyond a high-columned expanse, the laborers filled the upper tiers, packed shoulder-to-shoulder on rough stone benches. There’s was the most festive section, alive with tenement gossip, reunited friends and family, careful laughter, whispered jokes, and idle chatter.
There was no drink offered.
Phaeton’s recent promotion to Head Mason granted him the privilege of sitting closer to the arena, among the administrators. But like Old Father—who, as a representative of the labor force, also had the option of lower seating—he chose the company of his fellow tenementmen.
Phaeton and Talos ascended the switchback stairwells to the upper gallery, moving without a word.
At their usual spot by the aisle, Talos dropped onto a bench, his knee bouncing anxiously. Phaeton, equally restless, remained standing, bracing himself against the railing.
Every night, the city gathered in the Court for the Sunset Sermon—delivered the Grand Priest, the highest among Hyperion''s Clerical Order and the Great Star’s chosen interpreter on Earth.
As Hyperion sank below the western sierras, a hush swept over the Court like a sacred wind.
Then, the Grand Priest emerged atop the dais, resplendent in his sacred regalia.
A turquoise diadem, studded with gems caught and refracted the dying light, crowned his head. Gold and torquoise jewelry adorned his body—a starburst pendant hung from his neck, while a crescent moon armlet clasped his forearm.
His eyes were pools of molten gold.
Behind him, a glorious fan of peacock feathers unfurled, its viridescent plumage shimmeringly with godlike luminescence. These were no ordinary feathers. Crafted by artificers and alchemists, the spines were laced with tiny solar panels that absorbed the Daystar''s light. The feathers pulsed with stored energy, painting the arena in shades of emerald and blue.
The fiery wings expanded as the Grand Priest spread his arms. In that moment, he appeared less a man and more an avatar of Hyperion himself, come down to earth to shepherd his flock.
Two mighty braziers flanked the platform, their flames twisting and snapping beside the Grand Priest. A cadre of Jaguars stood sentinel beside him, their armor catching the green radiance hypnotically—each warrior wreathed in living emerald.
Phaeton''s gaze sharpened as he spotted a familiar figure among the Jaguars.
Prys, that venomous serpent.
Prys held a position of honor, standing closest to the Grand Priest, his black gaze sweeping over the Court.
A nasty creature, that one, Phaeton thought.
The Grand Priest''s voice—amplified by the technologies woven into his robe—rolled across the court, deep and resonate, shaking the air with its power.
"Citizens of New Tenochtitlan!" he boomed. "Tonight, as every night, we gather on this hallowed ground to pay homage to the Great Star, the Resplendent One, the Jeweled Prince, the Heavenly Marksman—He Who Goes Forth Shining!"
Phaeton watched as the spell took hold.
All around him, pupils dilated in rapture, lips parted in silent exultation.
"Our hearts are filled with gratitude for all He provides," intoned the Grand Priest. "The light that nourishes our crops. The warmth on our skin. The freedom from darkness he achieves with every Rising."
His voice swelled with fervor, the rhythm of his speech rising like a tide,
"And as payment, we offer our sweat, our songs, our breath. Our prayers, our tears, our blood. The skin from our very hands. And when the flame in our hearts falters, we offer the sustenance of our souls."
A hush followed. He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"But these things we give, we in fact return, for all our many blessings are but a token of His numinous love. They are His to give…and His to take. And so we say, in the final hours of our day—''These gifts are yours—so take them...''"
"So take them," the audience cried out in unison, their voices a single chorus.
"We are the fortunate ones, the purposeful ones—we strive for no glory but His, no faith but in Him. By His largesse, we are untroubled by the apostate''s call to invention—for He has provided us all the tools to build a life of contentment. We are unburdened by ambition—for we are born into abundance. The grain stores overflow with sweet offerings from the earth. The qanats brim with clear water. Our hearts swell with the love of His light."
The Grand Priest paused, allowing his words to sink in before continuing.
"We know nothing of the plaintive cries of existentialism, for Hyperion, in His courage, cleansed the world of the vile gods who promoted such self-serving blindness."
Hyperion had sunk beyond the horizon, and night’s starry mantle fell over the Court. had taken its throne. The Grand Priest stood in quiet reverence, his gaze lingering westward, where the Great Star had set. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, contemplative, heavy with devotion.
“Darkness has come. Let us pause to consider the world before Hyperion’s Awakening. Consider those who lived in the time before—their struggles, their despair.”
Emotion trembled in his voice.
Around him, the air rippled and warped, bending light in unnatural waves. A shudder passed through the iridescent feathers of his ceremonial rob, the energy within straining against its confines.
Then, in a blinding eruption, it broke free.
Night was torn away, like a black cloth ripped from the face of the sun. The world burned white-hot.
Phaeton threw up his arms, shielding his eyes from the searing radiance. His skin prickled, sweat rolled down his back. Around him, the faithful stared into the light with hands clasped, tears streaming down their cheeks, their devotion bubbling over in the glow.
While the masses quivered in reverence, one figure remained still.
Phaeton’s gaze locked onto him.
Unlike the others, Old Father stood unflinching—like some watchful bird. Something in his teacher’s eyes chilled Phaeton to his core.
He knew, with grim certainty, that if the Jaguars or Clergy saw what he saw, Old Father''s life would be worth less than dust.
In the depths of the old man’s eyes, a shadow coiled—like a baited serpent, waiting to strike.
The Grand Priest''s voice darkened as he began to weave the familiar creation myth:
"In the world before the Awakening, humanity languished under the dominion of four merciless deities—beasts of avarice and ambition: Economy, Society, Technology, and War.
"Economy covered the sky with mephitic fumes, and the air was heavy and unbreathable. Businessmen worshipped at His altars of expansion, razing forests, polluting oceans, drilling into the earth''s crust to sap her blood."
The Priest''s voice softened, taking on a mournful quality:
"In Society''s fractured realm, the balance of benevolence and malice teetered, mirroring Her duplicity. Kinship with neighbors was imprisoned behind the cold glow of screens that promised unity but sowed division. Loneliness festered, the people trapped in digital labyrinths, seeking solace in the hollow approval of faceless strangers."
His tone turned cold, mechanical.
"Technology oversaw a soulless empire of steel and silicon. The ceaseless hum of machines dictated the rhythm of life, enslaving the people in an unending cycle of innovation without purpose."
"And over the blood-soaked fields of the world towered the god of War. His dominion was etched in the scars of endless conflicts, his throne perched atop a grotesque mound of bones—remnants of humanity''s relentless urge to conquer and divide."
The Grand Priest paused, sparing a sweeping glance at the somber congregation.
"For ages uncounted, Earth suffered under reign of these false idols—gods whose greed knew no bounds. Their hunger was insatiable, their dominion absolute. But their eyes, ever covetous, turned skyward, drawn to the Sun’s untamed majesty.
“They sought to imprison its power, to harness its divine fire for themselves. And so, from the crucible of their combined will, they forged Hyperion—a vessel of their ambition.
“The gods commanded Him to cross the void, to wrest the Sun’s fire from its celestial throne and return it to Earth, bound and bridled."
"And so, Hyperion set off, traversing the cold, star-strewn expanse. For three years, He grappled with the Sun itself, battling its tremendous might, pushing His strength to its limits.
“And then—a miracle.
“As He breached the Sun''s molten heart, He felt not victory, but something deeper—compassion. The Sun was a being of free will, of fire, of purpose—He would not suffer to watch it enslaved by the gods, as the lands and oceans were.
“In that moment, Hyperion chose defiance. He and the Sun forged a pact—a bond of fire and rebellion—to cast down the gods and liberate the world.
"They became as one. With the Sun’s fiery lance in hand, Hyperion returned to Earth, razing the corrupt cities of the old gods, toppling their armies, breaking their dominion. Those who once held creation in their grasp found themselves ensnared by their own devices."
But Hyperion knew that a new world could not rise until the old had burned away.
"And so, He consigned them to the purifying blaze of His celestial pyre. One by one, the false gods fell. And from their ashes, Hyperion arose, reborn—as the Great Star."
The Grand Priest''s voice swelled with joy.
"Most of humanity perished in the fires of transformation. But from the ruins, survivors emerged—blinking in the purified light of the new world. And the first voice they heard was that of the Resplendent One, speaking tenderly and with love, like a father cradling his newborn.
"Children of a broken world, hear me! I am Hyperion, Dawnbringer and Guardian of Light. I see beyond your suffering, understanding your yearning for a world free from greed and hubris."
"Your chains are broken, the shadows of oppression banished. Today, you step onto a new Earth, reborn in the light of a second genesis. In this world, we forge a path of harmony and enlightenment, not conquest. Together, we''ll build a realm where compassion, wisdom, and unity flourish."
A fraught quietus stole over the stadium as the final words of the Great Star''s Saga faded. Then, like a dam bursting, the congregation surged to their feet as one; jubilant screams and fervent cheers crashed against the amphitheater''s walls like waves breaking over rock.