A million arms stretched westward, as if to grasp the sun’s fading rays and pull their savior back across the sky.
The Grand Priest allowed the congregation’s emotions to crest and break over the Court like a great tide. Then, with deliberate slowness, he raised his hands.
The effect was instantaneous. Like a vast orchestra responding to its maestro, the mollified crowd stilled, awaiting the next movement.
His voice emerged, soft yet crystal clear . The miraculous technology woven into his regalia carried his words—sweet and soft—as if whispered in their ears.
“Fear not,” he intoned. “The Jeweled Prince has merely gone to bed to replenish Himself. He will return with the dawn, renewed. So too shall we give ourselves to the night, that we may rise again, our hearts full of love and gratitude.
“But first, there are grave matters to discuss.”
Torches and braziers roared to life, flames casting dancing shadows across the priest’s rapturous gaze.
Like water beginning to boil, anxious murmurs rippled through the crowd. Faces turned, eyes darting, searching for loved ones—seeking reassurance where none could be given.
The Grand Priest let the unrest fester for a moment before clearing his throat. The Court fell silent once more.
“You may wonder why I chose tonight to retell the Saga of the Great Star.”
His gaze swept across the multitude, heavy with solemn authority.
“After this morning’s events, I felt it my sworn duty—as Hyperion’s anointed emissary—to remind you of the world that was. The horrors of the past. The false gods who led us astray. It is a story I had the privilege of reminding the seven hundred souls from the North Quad tenement of.”
A scattering of hushed sobs broke through the mass of humanity—a raw wound laid bare. Many had lost friends, kin, lovers in the Glare. Their absence was deeply felt in the kitchens, markets, and work sites, where empty seats and unmanned tools stood as silent effigies for the lost.
The Grand Priest’s voice softened to a fatherly cadence.
“You are right to weep for them. But let your tears spring not from sorrow—but from joy. For in the Glare, their earthly sins have been forgiven.”
His eyes gleamed with beatific certainty.
“Even now, they rest in lush fields of the Garden—the land of eternal summer, where water flows and the faithful bask in Hyperion’s light. They are the fortunate ones. Their toil is over. Their reward, eternal.”
A lone voice broke through the silence.
“But why were they taken, Your Grace?”
The Jaguars tensed, but the Grand Priest simply shook his head, his expression heavy with sad understanding.
“The details are irrelevant, child.”
He sighed, as though speaking to a wayward student.
“Hyperion’s light invades all darkness—both in the world and in our hearts. His wisdom stretches beyond what mortal senses can comprehend. Trust that if He deemed them ready for ascension—whatever the cause—He had good reason.”
His voice dropped lower, charged with warning.
“But know this.”
A pause.
“For those who walk a dark path—for those who stream through the night like wraiths, defying curfew, profaning the sacred hours of reflection and replenishment—know that you are not unwatched.”
He lifted his arms toward the sky.
“The Eagles—our brilliant demigods, our greatest defenders—stand vigilant in the darkest hours. Ever watchful. Ever just.”
The crowd held its breath.
“Praise the Eagles.”
A crackling scream tore through the night, a sound like rending metal and burning air.
The heavens shuddered.
Two blazing stars dropped from the heavens, their descent unnatural, effortless—blindingly beautiful. They did not fall or fly; they simply arrived—as if bending reality to their will.
A stunned silence rolled through the court at the sudden arrival of these legends, so rarely seen by human eyes, mere whispers and myths to most.
The first voice broke free, then another, then thousands, a tidal wave of exultation and terror. Some collapsed where they stood. Others clutched their chests, overwhelmed by some primal instinct—fear and awe.
"The Eagles! The Eagles! The Eagles!"
The chant rose like a storm, a prayer, a warning, a desperate plea.
The demigods alighted beside the Grand Priest. Even the Jaguars, those stalwart warriors, took shifted nervously as they regarded the divine emissaries.
Phaeton swallowed hard.
They are like the angels of Yahweh, he thought, remembering Old Father’s biblical stories.
Towering and unnervingly slender, the Eagles stood like statues of living Lapis Lazuli; their supple bodies appearing both weightless and unimaginably strong.
Their skin —if that’s what it was—flowed like liquid metal, shifting between perfection and distortion. Draped in muted blues and grays of twilight, they exuded an aura of divinity and doom.
From their crowned heads, a golden carapace extended outward, not worn but fused to them—an intricate, almost ceremonial mantle that seemed less like armor and more like an extension of their being. Spindly appendages shot from these crowns, each spoke glowing, as though freshly pulled from a forge.
Their eyes were deep crimson orbs embedded in the carapace—large and luminous—polished, glassy, and unreadable.
Below the carapace, what little of their elongated faces was visible remained inscrutable, as if sculpted from ancient stone.
To Phaeton, their mouths seemed frozen in a perpetual frown—the quiet, stony disappointment of a judge who has already rendered their verdict.
Everything about them—their movement, their stillness, the way they looked, how they affected the environment and those around them—suggested they inhabited neither this space nor the next. They were nebulous phantoms of the Garden. Neither dead nor alive, neither angels nor demons, but something other—revenants bound to Hyperion.
There were rumors, of course, about their origins.
Most believed that each Eagle—five in total, one for each corner of the city, and one above—had been fashioned from Hyperion’s very ribs. Phaeton smirked at that one, recognizing its roots in a far older religion.
Others whispered that the Eagles were souls returned from the Garden, so pure and unwavering in their devotion that Hyperion had granted them corporeal form once more. They existed, some claimed, as living testaments to the heights one could reach when faith was absolute.
And then, there was the theory Phaeton believed: that the Eagles were Jaguars and Clerics who were chosen to become Eagles, then subjected to some terrible transformative process.
His gaze drifted to the dais, where Prys stood, watching the Eagles. Admiring. Coveting.
Phaeton shuddered.
What would a man like him do with such terrible power?
And yet…he had to wonder.
If the Eagles had once been men, what was taken from them? Something vast. Something irreplaceable.
Was such power worth sacrificing one’s history? One’s sense of self?
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Phaeton did not know.
But the thought unsettled him.
Froth gathered along the Grand Priest’s mouth in a milky foam as if his body overflowed with belief.
“Behold Hyperion’s angels—come from the four corners of New Tenochtitlan to reveal themselves as a reminder that even in the absence of light, the Jeweled Prince is unchallenged. They—”
The Grand Priest’s voice caught. Just for a moment. Yet, with the amplifiers woven into his robes, even the smallest hesitation became unmistakable.
Phaeton noticed. It was as if, for the briefest second, the Grand Priest was reluctant to say what came next.
“It is now suspected,” the Grand Priest continued, carefully measured, “that the heretics of the fallen tenement had ties to a certain… organization.” He let the implication hang, allowing unease to settle over the crowd like a dense fog. “And worse still, they did not act alone. There are whispers that others—beyond that tenement—offered them aid, providing access to places forbidden to all but the Clergy.”
“Any who come forth with knowledge of the heretic’s whereabouts—or those who have harbored them—will be greatly rewarded. These traitors walk among you. They trade in your markets, labor beside you, share meals at your table. They may be the merchant you favor, the friend you trust, the kin you love. But know this—if their hearts have strayed, if they have turned from the path of light, then they are no friend to you. They are no friend to Hyperion.”
The Grand Priest’s voice softened, becoming sorrowful, understanding. “If you love them, then love them as Hyperion loves you. Love them enough to give them the chance to cleanse their souls in the fire of His light, to be purified and made whole again.”
The Court had fallen into silence.
“Is there anyone who will come forward?”
The hair on the back of Phaeton’s neck bristled.
No one moved. No one spoke.
The Grand Priest exhaled, his voice tightening, almost pleading. “Is there truly no one?”
Beside him, the Eagles stirred. The tips of their crowns, once white, pulsed with a slow, menacing shift to deep crimson. The Grand Priest took a step back, his body rigid, as if loathe to be close to them. Phaeton caught the movement, barely more than an instinctive flinch.
He fears them too…
“Your silence angers the Eagles, and in turn, Hyperion is not satisfied.” The Grand Priest’s tone darkened. “It pains me to say this, but only autosacrifice will assuage their wrath.”
A sharp, collective inhale rippled through the crowd.
Autosacrifice—the willing offering of blood. The highest display of faith and devotion.
“Is there one among you—pure of conscience, stout of heart—who will step forward? Or shall we let the Eagles decide?”
The weight of the question loomed over the court like a dark cloud.
Then, from the sea of bowed heads, a figure emerged.
She was young—sixteen at most—but there was no hesitation her steps as she climbed the stone platform at the center of the area, same as the ones at the work sites, though grander. Torchlight caught her wide, luminous eyes, their solemnity a stark contrast to the turmoil around her.
A single, anguished cry pierced the hush.
"No, Ilea!"
A woman surged forward, fighting through the crowd toward the girl. The Jaguars reacted instantly, forming a line, their spears crossed. A man—her father, most likely—caught her before she could reach the platform, his grip firm even as his own eyes brimmed with tears.
Ilea paused. She turned, looking at them with something soft, knowing, final. For a fleeting moment, her resolve wavered, revealing the scared child beneath. But then, she straightened, facing the Grand Priest with her chin held high.
"I offer myself.”
Her family''s sobs mingled with the somber murmurs of the crowd. A hollow cold spread inside Phaeton’s chest, like ice water dumped on his heart.
The Eagles shifted, their eyes softly pulsing as their attention fixed on the girl.
"The bastards," Talos muttered, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck strained. This time, Phaeton was too sick at heart to chastise him. He felt it too.
Old Father''s weathered hands clenched into fists, knuckles whitening.
The Grand Priest smiled down at her, gold teeth flashing in the firelight.
"You honor Hyperion with your bravery, child," he began, the honeyed words dripping from his lips. "Your selflessness, your devotion—it sets an example for us all."
He gazed at her with paternal warmth, even as her real parents wept below. "To offer oneself as you have... it is the surest path to the Garden." His head raised as he addressed the crowd, voice swelling with theatrical gravitas. "Behold! Here stands a true Child of Hyperion, a willing lamb amidst the wolves of doubt and fear. Let her courage inspire us all to embrace the light, no matter the cost."
His attention returned to Ilea. His smile deepened.
"Go now, child—your place beside the Resplendent One awaits."
The Eagle’s rose in the air as one. They drifted down from the dais over the crowd, light as feathers, landing soundless on either side of Ilea.
Long, lithe arms extended, their blue fingers delicate, reverent. They took her hands, cradling them as gently as one might hold a wounded bird.
Phaeton felt Talos stirring beside him. He swiftly clasped the young man''s arm.
"Get off, mate!" Talos seethed.
Phaeton held firm. “Be grateful to her! Would you rather the Eagles have their pick of the pack?”
Talos’s breathing was ragged, his fury barely contained. “I know her, Phae! That’s Geroff’s daughter—the fruit merchant!”
Phaeton remembered. A soft-spoken girl, peeking from behind her mother''s skirts at her family''s stand in East Market. Rosy cheeks flushed from the sun, auburn curls tumbling down her face, her mouth sticky with papaya juice.
"She''s grown..." His voice broke.
Talos slapped his head exasperatingly. "And she’s done doing so unless we act!"
Heads were turning now, ears perked and listening. Even among their own people it was dangerous to speak so.
Before Talos could say more, a strong hand yanked his other arm.
Old Father’s grip was iron, his voice low and furious. "Now, you best ken and ken well—this is not a moment for your foolishness. This is a moment of respect. Even a dunderhead as you should know better. Shut your gawp and watch—this is what true courage looks like."
Deflated, Talos relaxed, but his eyes continued to burn.
Below Ilea''s breath was quickening. Her gaze turned skyward, locking onto the celestial tapestry of distant, indifferent stars.
Then, a profound transformation took place—just as it had with the old man at the worksite—and for one brief, heartbreaking moment, the Court glimpsed the woman she was meant to become. Strong. Proud. Beautiful.
As if acknowledging her resolve, one of the Eagles released her hands and began to rise.
The desert was home to many birds—sparrows, doves, pigeons, swallows—their movements familiar to Phaeton. He had spent countless hours watching them near the qanats, skimming over wells, darting between crops, fluttering through the markets. Their flight was a symphony of effort and grace, each wingbeat a testament to life, motion, and freedom.
The Eagles did not fly.
There seemed to be no effort in it, no lift, no strain; it was as if the world moved around them, bending to their will, pulling them skyward.
It was a mockery of flight, devoid of joy or the pulse of life..
The mighty emissary of Hyperion climbed higher, a dark specter against the night. Then it flared.
The energy stored within its form—steadily fortified by Hyperion’s rays each day from its perch atop one of the city’s four great obsidian watchtowers, known as the Eagle’s Nests—intensified into a focused beam.
Ilea gasped as the solar lance pierced her breast, instantly cutting through flesh and bone. She did not scream. Her eyes remained wide, fixed on the stars, as the Eagle devoured her heart.
The other Eagle held her upright, but her legs dangled, curling beneath her. It was over in seconds.
Her mouth slackened and her eyes become like a doll’s—glassy and lifeless.
The solar beam flickered out. The Eagle descended joining its twin at her side.
Ilea’s head lolled forward, her chin resting just above the smoking hole where her heart had been.
The smell of cooked flesh drifted through the Court. Some in the audience recoiled, covering their mouths.
From their place on the arena floor, Ilea’s parents remained kneeling, eyes fixed on their only daughter’s lifeless body.
High above, on the dais, the Grand Priest had observed. Unlike the Adjudicator, who made no effort to hide his pleasure at the old man’s immolation, the Grand Priest showed no sign of sadness nor joy in the girl’s death.
Now that it was over, observing the crowd’s restlessness, he stirred—raising his hands, commanding silence.
“Be at peace, Children.” His smooth voice sweeping forth with measured reassurance. “She is in the Garden now. She was young, courageous, and possessed a righteous heart—worthy of a place beside the Jeweled Prince. So take her.”
“So take her.” The crowd responded. As the refrain faded, the Eagles rose with Ilea’s body held drifting between them, her hair fanning out in the night. They flew south carrying her toward the lightless expanse of the desert.
And that’s when her mother broke.
The agonized sound—neither scream nor wail, but something primal—filled the great Amphitheatre.
Her husband tried to hold her, but he too buckled under grief. As the mother thrashed, wailed, collapsed in anguish, the Jaguars moved in, seizing them both.
The crowd stirred, outraged voices rising.
Even Old Father lost his restraint. “Let them be!” he shouted, voice lost among similar cries. Anger swelled, rolling in waves.
But before it could break, the Grand Priest’s amplified voice spoke.
“Peace! They will be looked after. Special clerics, trained in the art of grieving, will tend to their wounds. Their hearts will be mended, as Hyperion wills.”
A murmur swept through the crowd, uncertain but held in check by his unwavering tone.
Then, his expression darkened.
“But understand this—until the sympathizers of the heretics are found, until those who aided them either come forth or are identified, there will be consequences.”
His words hung in the air, a heavy promise.
With that, he turned and departed, his diaphanous robes catching the firelight as he strode from the dais.
***
Phaeton and Talos moved with the stunned crowed, their hearts heavy as they filed out of the Court. Around them, a sea of faces mirrored their distress—eyes darting about suspiciously, as if seeing their neighbors for the first time. No words were spoken, yet the air was thick with their unvoiced fears, doubt gnawing at the fabric of their familiar bonds.
Phaeton tilted his head back, studying the stars, as Ilea had.
I wonder which one she found strength in at the end.
There were so, so many—more than he could count in a thousand lifetimes. Were there others like Hyperion? Demanding honors and sacrifices in exchange for their light, or was theirs the only one? Could there be a gentler star, a merciful one, that warmed the world without cost?
Dangerous thoughts.
He shook his head clear, clearing it.
Be not like Talos – he questions too much and thinks too little.
Phaeton began the mantra:
"O Radiant Sovereign of the sky,
Beneath Your golden gaze, we thrive.
Your warmth bestows life''s sacred breath,
In Your light, our fortunes writhe…”
He let the mantra consume his thoughts. His feet found the path home on instinct, back to his apartment in Tenement Six of the Southwest Quad, where both his best friend and beloved teacher also lived.
Life wasn’t so bad. His days were filled with interesting problems and gratifying work. There were dark moments, true, but for the most part his existence had meaning. Purpose.
Talos might bluster, might speak out of turn, but he was no true heretic. He had no real ties to dissidents, nor anarchistic tendencies to speak of. He wasn''t in any danger. Phaeton and Old Father would keep him in check.
There was nothing to worry about. Nothing to long for, and nothing to question.
He was born into a world with very few rules, free of the burden of choices or aspirations. Such was Hyperion’s wisdom—the Great Star, the Resplendent One, the Dawn Bringer who glided across the sky.
And now, that journey had been fortified by brave Ilea. She deserved envy as much as admiration.
Perhaps I''ll pay her parents a visit tomorrow and offer my congratulations.
The idea made him smile.