ã€ŠDARK STARã€‹


 CHAPTER 1: TIME TO DAWN

    The lunatic is on the grass

    The lunatic is on the grass

    Remembering games

    And daisy chains and laughs

    Got to keep the loonies on the path

    Everyone feared the morning.

    Night¡¯s shimmering canopy draped over New Tenochtitlan, growing threadbare with each passing minute. Stars, flung across the sky like strokes from a celestial brush, watched in silent pity¡ªfor soon, the tyrant sun would rise, burning them away, and this fragile peace would fade like a dying dream.

    The sprawling metropolis awaited dawn in silence¡ªa black grid of brutalist structures and scrambling baroque temples. Dark windows stared down at the lacework of shadows that made up the throughfares. There were no streetlamps or artificial light of any sort in New Tenochtitlan. Nothing stirred, as if the city were a machine waiting to be turned on.

    Visitors from another time might find the silence disturbing, unnatural¡ªlike lightning cleaving the sky without its thunderous echo. In a city of five million souls¡¯ life should stir, even in the loneliest hours before dawn. A city is a beast, and beasts breathe even as they sleep.

    But a pre-H.A. visitor would not know about the noise curfew prohibiting sound above a conversational 60 dB level within the safety of the tenements. For those brave enough to venture out after curfew, the threshold is even lower ¨C any noise above 30 dB alerts the Eagles.

    Which is why the Whispers moved noiselessly¡ªliving up to their name.

    The pair skipped over the rooftops, breath measured¡ªdeep, controlled, never ragged. Every step was deliberate: using the outer rims of their feet so their padded tabi footwear barely registered on the sound sensors displayed in their HUD. A combination of skill and forbidden technology from the old world.

    Even at a sprinter''s pace their passage was indistinguishable from the phantom ambling of a prowling cat. The high winds were with them tonight, masking any sounds.

    Not that they were likely to be so careless.

    The mission had been meticulously planned, every variable considered: wind patterns, the moon''s position, even the age of the roofing material along their route to the ecclesiastic district known as Heaven, which lay beyond the walls of the northern warrens.

    The Team Leader slid to a stop at the roof''s edge and raised a gloved fist. The Whispers caught their breath, waiting for her Navi to recalibrate. Her pulse raced while a waterfall of information cascaded across her interface: figures and measurements produced an augmented reality path to their quarry, complete with suggested routes, risk assessments, and probabilities of success.

    DISTANCE TO NORTH OUTER WALL = 27.432 METERS

    ETA = 15 minutes

    TIME TO DAWN = 27 MINUTES

    RISK = SEVERE

    Should be enough time, she thought. She briefly lowered the interface to dab sweat from her brow as she looked over the site. This was the tallest tenement in the North quarters and provided a slight vantage over the wall into Heaven.

    Moonlight spread across the grounds¡ªan arboreal pavilion twenty hectares deep. A colonnaded causeway split the lot like a seamless river of white marble, connecting the gates to at temple that peeked over the bulkhead like a whale''s hump.

    The grand Hellenic temple perched impressively at the head of the promontory: fluted Doric columns topped with an abacus and echinus saluting the sky. Despite the absence of visible guards or overt security, their intel warned that the grounds were heavily surveilled.

    She nodded, and Second Whisper secured the grappling line. They vaulted over the edge, descending like spiders on silken threads, landing soundlessly on their toes. After quickly detaching the lines, the Whispers fell into step¡ªmoving at a ghostly.

    Two pulses from their suits¡¯ haptics signaled their arrival at the weakest surveillance point. Now, the wall.

    Scaling the ten-story wall unnoticed would be impossible ¡ª going through is the only choice.

    Second Whisper unhooked the bag slung across his muscled torso and sifted through its contents. Weapons. Medical supplies. Climbing gear. Each tool nestled in velvet. His hand emerged victorious, a compact device held aloft for Leader''s confirmation. She stuck her thumb out in the ageless gesture of approval.

    Second Whisper wiggled his hips in celebration. Leader smothered a chuckle. Laughter is always warmest when least appropriate, especially when standing in death¡¯s shadow.

    Stop fucking around, she signed.

    Second Whisper sobers, fingers skimming across the device¡¯s dashboard, feeding it a feast of data about the wall''s composition: thickness, bonding properties, density, thermal conductivity, acoustic properties, toxicity, flammability, radiation, and potential countermeasures.

    After pressing the phaser''s belly to the wall and releasing the safety latches, Second Whisper sands back as a low hiss escapes the device. Eight mechanical legs unfurl from its carapace, latching onto the surface until the phaser is entrenched in the stone like a tick burrowed into flesh.

    Second Whisper hesitates. Fingers flicker in the dim light.

    No going back from this.

    Leader nods, her chin dipping slightly.

    Her subordinate exhales, thumb hovering for a beat¡ªthen presses the red button.

    The device awakens, its legs a blur of alloys¡ªa mix of titanium, nickel, aluminum, and magnesium¡ªmoving at speeds too swift for human eyes to track. Yellow light spills from the phaser''s belly. A depression forms as the stone surrenders, liquifying into a molten slag, then folds.

    Real-time data on the phaser¡¯s progress feeds into their HUDs: a flexing heatmap outlining velocity, temperature, emission, and decibel levels.

    Warnings flared in urgent crimson:

    Convection and Infrared Emissions: Critical

    Gas Emissions: Approaching Detection

    Threshold Breach Imminent...

    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Leader''s hands flash orders: Cover the work site!

    Second Whisper is already in motion, spreading a sheet of nacreous metamaterial over the drill site like a curtain¡ªan original blend of kevlar, fiberglass, and aerogels coated in fluoropolymer and silver. The curtain traps heat and bends infrared light, concealing thermal imaging.

    Thirty agonizing seconds crawl by as the phaser carves through a meter of concrete.

    TIME TO DAWN = 25.34 MINUTES

    Milky halon vapor seeps around the curtain''s folds. Finally, the button turned green.

    Second Whisper sweeps the metamaterial curtain aside with a bow, revealing a tunnel veined red with snaking heat. The wind finds its way through, kicking up embers.

    Entering the breach, the Whisper¡¯s passage is only marked by the sizzle of aramid fibers against superheated stone.

    The Whispers race through the wet sedge fields, closing on the entrance. Pre-dawn¡¯s muted blues spill over the temple''s white marble fa?ade. They vault over the rampart gracefully, skating into the portico¡¯s waiting shadow.

    Inside, the air thickens with frankincense and myrrh, a choking haze that bleeds through their air filters. They glide over the marble, hearts hammering in the empty, sacred silence.

    Then, they stop¡ªawed by the sanctum''s sheer scale. The space could house a village.

    Nothing stirs: no meditative chants, no shuffle of acolytes'' feet, no murmured supplications.

    Second Whisper freezes like a deer sensing a lion in the high brush. Team Leader feels it too: the spine-chilling sensation of being observed, dissected, judged.

    The eyes of God.

    Hyperion¡¯s effigy dominates the space. The spires of his gilded crown stretching through the gaping oculus. Ivory and gold leaf shimmer over his robes, iridescent veins flicker like captive lightning across his brow. The jeweled eyes study them with cold disproval: who are these ants daring to trespass on hallowed grounds.

    Second Whisper hitches, kneeling on the floor with his hands clasped.

    Leader grips his arm. Her fingers dig into the suit shaking him until she¡¯s sure his eyes on her. Even through the visor, she senses the lost terror in his eyes.

    NOT your God. Not anymore.

    Breathing shakily, he slowly rises, his knees trembling as if the foundation of his identity were crumbling to ruin. Team Leader points at an alcove tucked within the western arcade.

    Keep moving.

    The alcove stairwell corkscrews into the earth, winding like the hands of a clock spinning in reverse. Step by step, time unravels¡ªneoclassical elegance giving way to jagged angles and stark lines. Each level passed peels back a layer, revealing a world both advanced and nostalgic.

    The world that was.

    They exit at the fourth landing, sprinting down a carpeted path so devoid of color it seems to hunger for it. Sickly fluorescents cast a jaundiced glow, stretching shadows where none should exist.

    This place is a tomb for a culture that sold its soul, Leader thinks, gliding past a sign reading CONFERENCE ROOMS¡ªa gallery of dim chambers furnished with chairs that look like torture devices ¡ªand cold windows whose black glass swallows their reflections.

    Past that, are the COMMUNAL SPACES¡­stunted cubist dwellings¡ªsmall and impersonal¡ªpartitioned with corkboard. Tiny family photos buried in dust. Paperweight with floating goldfish. Kitschy decorations. Abstract art sticks to the walls with all the charm of stale vomit.

    This is no place for free people, Team Leader muses.

    Right turn. Left turn. Endless corridors.

    TIME TO DAWN = 12 MINUTES

    The HUD shows their path through the maze¡ªa ghostly blue line with pulsing white directional arrows.

    Somewhere in the heart of this banal nightmare lies the information key to understanding the monster that ended this world.

    The suit''s haptics buzz in triplicate when they reach their destination. They enter a dark server room and stand before a bulwark of wall-to-wall monitor shelves, dashboards, and hard drives.

    Their optical sensors scan the dormant technology. Team Leader accesses her onboard databases, pulling all available files and schematics on the room. Her hands move:

    This is it. Find port. Install FOB.

    Second Whisper pulls up an AR overlay of the command center''s original layout¡ªsalvaged from a blasted server farm¡ªand begins the search. It''s like a game of virtual hot-and-cold¡ªfollowing the ghostly digital path that settles and intensifies. Finally, it settles, standing before an ancient terminal layered with inch-thick dust.

    The FOB slides home with a satisfying click, but nothing happens.

    He tries again. The machines remain inert. Second Whisper gestures desperately.

    Now what?

    Team Leader''s brow furrows beneath her visor. Then, she fingers snap in silent triumph.

    Power button!

    Second Whisper nods eagerly.

    They attack the ancient computer, their fingers leaving dust trails as they sift through the arcane symbols, pressing buttons at random.

    Team Leader summons a digital treasure trove¡ªmanuals painstakingly collected over decades¡ªscrolling through the list until...

    The Icon Book: Visual Symbols for Computer Systems and Documentation

    She dives into the appendix, zeroing in on "P" for power. The symbol lurks on the monitor''s edge, blazing to life at her touch. The machine stirs. Monitors flicker to life in sequence, cascading across the wall like dominos of light. Milky white light flickers on the monitor screens, slowly, stubbornly, as if blinking away the fog of a centuries-deep sleep.

    The fob pulses¡ªinitiating the program.

    The air crackles as capacitors charge and data paths clear themselves of dust and corruption. Desktop windows detonate open, and files spill across the display like a deck of cards.

    The Whispers hold their breath as the program feeds when a command prompt appears, cursor blinking expectantly.

    DOWNLOAD OPERATION HYPERION? Y/N

    Team Leader selects ¡°Y.¡±

    The program goes to work, consuming terabytes in seconds¡ª blueprint, meeting transcripts, audio files, surveillance footage¡ªa meticulous grocery list of ingredients.

    Everything they need to bring down the system.

    The download barely finishes before all hell breaks loose.

    The screens go black, snuffed out like candles. A deafening alarm wails through the halls¡ª a frenzied drone bee rallying the hive.

    Second Whisper''s removes the FOB just as the monitors burst into flames. His eyes snap to Leader, panicked.

    MOVE!

    They sprint through pulsing red corridors. Upward they spiral¡ªfloor after floor, as drywall and concrete yield to marble. Time twists, fractures beneath Hyperion¡¯s fury.

    TIME TO DAWN: THIRTY SECONDS

    Panting, they reenter the inner sanctum. Sunlight streamed through stained-glass, splashing vibrant patterns onto polished marble. Morning spilled through the dome¡¯s oculus, branching like lightning as it illuminates the gold filigree in Hyperion¡¯s crown.

    Slipping into the colonnade¡¯s shadows, the Whispers surge forward at breakneck pace toward the atrium¡ªpast the portico and over the rampart. Their feet slap the dew-soaked grass¡ªlegs pedaling and breath ragged; the time for subtlety is over. Just as the exit comes into view, the heavens stir.

    A drone rises as Hyperion¡¯s Eagles circle overhead¡ªtheir flaring apexes shifting into a malevolent halo over the temple, like comets orbiting a celestial body. The Whispers activate their countermeasures. Their suits shimmer with a reflective surface, making them difficult to track in harsh daylight. They dive into the tunnel crawling desperately toward the dim blue portal where the shadows of the tenements might provide cover. The ground shakes, and a piercing screech follows after them. They roll from the tunnel just as a gout of flame bursts through, scorching their suits, damaging their cloaking device. Bodies burning, they race for their line.

    Second Whisper''s panicked voice rises above the droning. "We''re not going to make it¡± His words echo across weathered tiles as they scramble toward safety.

    Team Leader''s slashes her hand out. We''re almost there!

    Back on the rooftop, they quickly gather their gear and bolt toward an AC vent¡ªa hidden chute that will carry them deep beneath the earth, out of Hyperion¡¯s reach and beyond the Eagles. One breath away. One heartbeat.

    But then, the sky moves.

    The buzzing constellation shifts; the Eagles realign with terrifying purpose. High-intensity solar energy surges through their vertices, coalescing into a critical mass of annihilation. The air cracks¡ªsuperheated in an instant.

    Team Leader reaches for her companion, but it¡¯s too late. Second Whisper crumples to his knees, ripping off his goggles to face oblivion. He looks at her¡ªtears of shame boiling on his cheeks¡ªand throws her the FOB. She catches it and looks at her lover one last time. He murmurs something, but its lost amid the Eagle¡¯s screeching.

    The solar lance strikes, turning the rooftop into a crucible. In a flash of light, he¡¯s gone.

    With a scream that scorches her lungs, Team Leader leaps over the edge.

    Five stories down, her fall is broken by a flaming awning. She slams into concrete with crushing force and tumbles across the street. Several bones are broken; she feels them rattling inside her like the wreckage of a shattered ship. Yet, she rises again, hobbling as fast as she can away from the collapsing tenement and pyroclastic cloud.

    The acrid tang of brimstone fills her lungs, mingling with the taste of blood and loss. The tenement is an inferno, the rumble of its crumbling bones and crackling flames barely disguising the wail of screaming citizens and clanging alarms.

    There¡¯s nothing she can do for them.

    But Hyperion''s merciless ascent leaves no time for grief.

    Shedding soot and shock, she limps past the gathering crowds, into shadowy alleyways of the warren, away from the light, away from the tyrant sun.

 Chapter 2: Always More

    Harsh morning light scraped over the room like a dull blade, but it was the smell that roused Phaeton from his dreams. The melange of brimstone and burning meat assaulted his nostrils, sour and sharp. With every breath, the acrid stench pulsed with the familiar, dread refrain:

    Death! Death! Death!

    Phaeton''s eyes snapped open, breaking sleep''s velvet seal. He groaned as he stretched, his sore muscles loosening in a satisfying ripple, joints cracking in release. With a resigned sigh, he swung his legs off the cot and sat at the edge while rubbed the crusty remnants of dreams from his eyes.

    His head hammered faintly. I drank too much atole, he berated himself for his lack of discipline.

    ¡°One would think I¡¯d learn,¡± he mumbled, recalling a recent incident where he¡¯d awakened in the nursing ward after a night of carousing with only a drum belt covering his modesty.

    Talos''s doing¡ªas usual.

    As if summoned by the thought, a shadow appeared in the window. He turned to find the orphan boy''s smooth, cherubic face grinning at him, his brown ringlets glowing in Hyperion¡¯s radiance.

    "Allo, Fay!" Talos greeted, beaming like a fresh candle.

    Phaeton sighed; the day was off to a rollicking start. "Allo, Tal," he grunted. "How goes it?"

    Talos swayed in the window frame, his auburn curls bouncing like springs. "Well enough," he chirped, eyes twinkling mischievously at Phaeton¡¯s dishevelment. "Better''n you, I''d wager, and doubly handsome. Hard to grumble bout a hangover when tales from the northeast tenement percolating. You smell the smoke?"

    Rising, Phaeton sniffed and cleared his throat. ¡°Hard to miss, that is.¡± He stumbled to the sink and turned the lever, releasing a weak stream of rusty water. He filled his hands to splash his face, dampening his toothbrush. He set about tidying as he scrubbed his molars, rearranging knick-knacks and doodads, undoing organized structures for the sake of movement, stalling his mind from idling on the dark truths within the smell.

    Talos rapped his knuckles against the clouded glass, his face comically distorted. "Mind cracking this so we can talk proper?"

    Phaeton opened the window. The morning air was damp and weighted with a spoiled heat. Talos crouched inside, still grinning ¡°You look a sorry sight. Suppose that¡¯s my doin¡¯.¡±

    Phaeton waved him off. His mind had sobered enough to face the grim morning issue. "How many taken?" he asked in a flat voice.

    Talos''s eyes sank to the floor, his smile vanished like a message in sand erased by the wind. "As I heard it, some three-hundred souls ascended to the Garden. So take them."

    "So take them," Phaeton echoed solemnly. "What¡¯s the twittering as to why so many were sent into the Blessed One''s arms?"

    Talos scratched his head. "What caused thems sudden ascension was, according to rumor mongerin'', a strain of disbelievement."

    "Disbelievement?"

    "Aye - pernicious as ever did occur, by all accounts. Rotting folks from the inside out, they say. Sour grapes and what not."

    In perfect sync, both boys spat on the floor ¨C a superstitious rite to ward against evil.

    "Jaguars razed an entire tenement cuz of disbelievement?" Phaeton asked, dropping his voice to a whisper. ¡°Sounds a bit heavy handed.¡±

    ¡°Weren¡¯t Jaguars that did it¡ªtwas a Glare.¡±

    Phaeton blinked. "What?"

    ¡°Aye¡ªEagle¡¯s came down with immolating force. Glared the tenement down to its foundations. At least it was swift¡­¡±

    Phaeton stilled. His fingers tightened around the ceramic basin. Three hundred lives. Gone. Not by a Priest¡¯s decree, not by the Jaguars¡¯ hands, but by the Eagles themselves.

    This wasn¡¯t justice. This was wrath.

    He swallowed against the dryness in his throat. "Eagles don''t swoop round to Glare entire tenements for disbelievement, do they? That sorta offense is left to the ministries of the Priests.¡±

    Talos¡¯s mouth twisted. ¡°True. Those perfumed fops love a good inquisition.¡±

    ¡°Right so. For the Eagles to have a hand in this¡­somethin'' awful abnormal musta o''curred to bring round such harsh judgment."

    A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the waking city.

    "On that, I offer no comment. Alls I know is where''s once was disruptions is no disruption and the cycle continues. Aint'' that right, brother?"

    "Righter than rain," Phaeton replied, being sure to match Talos''s pitchful fervor. "Come. We should make toward the work site before we¡¯re counted truant."

    "Aye, we should at that. Got any of that good bread? Ain''t seen a morsel since tuck-down ¨C last night, my tum grumbled so fiercely I thought I''d break noise curfew!"

    Phaeton couldn''t help but crack a smile. Trust Talos to find hunger in the face of heresy.

    ***

    That morning, the Great Star''s displeasure beared down on New Tenochtitlan with searing force.

    Phaeton and Talos exited the tenements, raising their hands to shade their eyes as they stepped out onto dusty roads, down the familiar path toward the labor camps. Heat shimmered off the road; a smoky haze hung in the air. They wrapped scarves over their mouths.

    New Tenochtitlan was a grid¡ªa wonderment of mathematical precision; each tenement occupied a city block, spaced evenly apart by roads running parallel and perpendicular in all four directions.

    They were late, so they jogged at a brisk pace to catch up, eventually melding with the others at the back of the train. Citizens bent under the weight of His gaze, taking languid, measured steps, forming a continuous stream of humanity.

    Those traveling from the Northern Quadrant were easy to spot¡ªcloaked in ash, their faces the grey white of the marble motifs adorning the temples and palaces. Tear trails ran down the cheeks of some. Phaeton turned with red, misty eyes and saw a column of smoke jutting from the Northern Quadrant like a white finger stretching skyward. Questions burned in his mind but now was not the time for asking. This was the hour of reflection, of penance.

    Heel-to-toe, the masses poured from the byways onto a grand, colonnaded processional leading out of the city and beyond. The Great Star hung on the eastern sierras, casting light across the steppes, throwing the causeway into stark relief. The shadowless road, fifty lanes wide, shot south of the city. Beyond its walls, it branched into smaller thoroughfares to the many worksites, temples, and monuments built in honor of Hyperion''s grandeur.

    The sky stretched cloudless, so clear it seemed a determined gaze might pierce its azure depths to the twinkling veil beyond. Temples and monuments swam in the morning haze like slumbering giants, the polished surfaces of their ridges, domes, and minarets catching Hyperion¡¯s gaze, flashing like fire.

    Dust curled around the sandaled feet of laborers, stirred from the packed earth. Phaeton observed his fellow workers, noting their exhaustion¡ªthe tightness in their shoulders, the tension in their calloused hands, gnarled and dry as desert brush. Among them, a familiar figure emerged: Old Father.

    Catching the elderly man''s eye, Phaeton nodded. Old Father''s weathered countenance brightened, his toothy grin widening, smoothing back the decades.

    Talos, walking beside Phaeton, shook his head. "That old goat is a mad one¡ªalways flapping his gums. It''s a marvel he''s skirted selection so long."

    Phaeton frowned. "You''re a funny one to talk of discretion. Now hush, he''ll hear you," Phaeton warned.

    Talos snorted. "Let him. I don''t rattle over some senile¡ª"

    "Not Old Father," Phaeton cut him off, his voice low. He glanced sideways, eyes landing on a Jaguar standing guard beside the work train. "I mean him." The tall, powerful warrior''s face was obscured beneath his ceremonial headdress, but Phaeton felt his sharp gaze peering from the shadows, alert for signs of disobedience.

    Talos nodded somberly. "Oh," he breathed, understanding. A wall of self-preserving silence formed between them.

    The workers lowered their eyes as they passed the grand edifices. These sites were not meant to be marveled at¡ªthey were reminders of Hyperion''s omniscience, and of the homage they owed. Their purpose was labor. Their satisfaction lay in toil, in pleasing the one who brought fire to the land, nourishment to their crops, and warmth to their skin.

    Phaeton and Talos slouched toward the new site¡ªone that would overshadow all others.

    Even half-complete, the Great Pyramid of New Tenochtitlan dominated the skyline like a celestial stronghold, set against the dramatic backdrop of distant, dark mountains. At its base, monolithic columns stood sentinel over the causeways. A grand stairway ascended the tiered structure, crowned by twin temples plated with bronze and fitted with turquoise inlay that gleamed in the morning light. The stark white lime-plastered terraces contrasted sharply against the vivid blues and reds of its temple houses, their surfaces adorned with intricate bas-reliefs of eagles, jaguars, and supplicating priests.

    Phaeton had been granted the position of Head Mason in this monumental project, his skilled hands placing the stones that, day by day, gave form to these revered structures. The position granted him certain privileges¡ªlike working beneath the foreman¡¯s canopy, shielded from Hyperion¡¯s ire.

    He leaned over the blueprints spread across a makeshift table, his eyes tracing the designs. Each line and measurement told a story of divine proportions and celestial alignments.

    Nearby, a Jaguar barked at a sluggish worker, his voice sharp as a lash. Phaeton barely registered it. His mind remained fixed on the figures before him.

    With a worn pencil stub misshapen by his constant chewing, he added his own calculations in the margins, his mind a flurry of numbers and estimates. He''s not just placing stones; he''s orchestrating a logistical feat.

    How many cubic feet of limestone to meet today¡¯s benchmark? How many bags of mortar? How many men per section? These questions spun through his thoughts; each answer a thread holding the day''s progress together¡ªthe mortar that kept everything from unraveling.

    Nearby, a foreman barked at a sluggish worker, his voice sharp as a lash. Phaeton barely registered it. His mind remained fixed on the figures before him.

    Each decision Phaeton made rippled through the ranks of workers. A miscalculation could mean wasted materials, lost time, or worse¡ªstructural weaknesses that would bring the Adjudicators. Nearby, Talos mixed the mortar, his strong, tireless arms churning the substance that bound Phaeton¡¯s carefully laid stones. The rhythm of labor continued uninterrupted, steady as the rising structure itself.

    By mid-morning, with his calculations complete and orders dispatched to the foremen, Phaeton set his blueprints aside and turned to the work itself. Stone by stone, he built¡ªslowly, methodically, his hands shaping the abstract calculations in his mind into concrete reality.

    He enjoyed and was proud of his talent for mathematics, but no clever calculation could replace the simple satisfaction of labor. The weight of stone in his hand, the icy prickle of wind against his sweat-dampened clothes, the slick give of mortar beneath his fingers. There was a timeless, spiritual quality to the rhythm of placement and fusion. In it, he found something close to peace.

    Any of the men working beside him would gladly trade their axes, trowels, and chisels to study plans in the shade. And who could blame them? Phaeton knew how lucky he was¡ªOld Father had taught him numbers, and he had a mind built for them. But where others saw tedium, he found grace. Where they saw routine, he discovered something deeper¡ªa meditative peace.

    Building, striving upward¡ªit was a calling. When he looked over the structures dotting the valley, he didn''t tremble with awe at the deity they honored. He stood taller, filled with pride. They were proof of what man could achieve against the pull of the earth.

    What betterment could a tenement man wish for than to create something lasting, something beautiful, alongside his friends? Talos¡¯s steady companionship, Old Father¡¯s quiet wisdom, and the work itself¡ªthese were the pillars of his life. In his private heart, he needed no higher purpose.

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    Talos worked tirelessly, keeping Phaeton supplied with mortar, though without his sense of serenity or purpose. He hid his discontent behind a mask of focus, his gaze hard, his brow furrowed.

    That was the trick. A face could be read, a voice interpreted¡ªbut the Jaguars, the Clerics, even Hyperion himself had yet to decode the soul¡¯s doctrine. Every slave carried a hidden heart, a secret sanctuary where private thoughts and quiet defiance could be buried beyond the reach of gods and masters alike.

    Among the workers, orders weren''t the only things moving through the site. Just as water seeps through the hardest stone, rumors from the North Quad trickled in. Talos¡ªsomehow¡ªwas always the first to hear them.

    Naturally, Phaeton was the first person he told.

    He trapped Phaeton at the water bucket, ready to burst with excitement, like an overfilled wineskin. "Oye, Fay! Wanna hear what Grendis from North-West told me just now?"

    "Not so much," Phaeton muttered, sipping from the ladle.

    "Too bad. He says that tenement¡ªyou know the one¡ªit was the meeting place for higher-ups in the Children. They was plotting to poison the water wells. The people there protected them, that''s how come they got the Glare."

    Phaeton wiped sweat from his brow. "Why would the Children be poisoning wells? Thought their whole message was liberation. How does murdering half the city win them that?"

    Talos shrugged. "Maybe he meant the clerics'' wells?"

    "Maybe he''s as soft-headed as you."

    Talos smirked. "Wanna hear another one?"

    Phaeton sighed.

    "Some are saying the tenement was a new church. That them who lived there practiced one of the old religions outlawed by the Blessed Star. Which one do you reckon it was? Judaism? Christianity? Hindu? Polytheistic Hellenism?"

    Phaeton nearly choked. His hair stood on end. "By the Blessed Star, keep your damn voice down! You want to end up an ash statue too?"

    The excited light in Talos¡¯s eyes quickly tempered at Phaeton¡¯s tone. "Just saying what I heard. Thought you¡¯d wanna know¡ªsince you find religion and all that guff interestin¡¯."

    "I don¡¯t wanna know. Not here. Never here. Too many cats about." Phaeton scanned the tiers above. Three Jaguars huddled together, laughing over some private joke. Not listening. Not yet. He lowered his voice anyway. "These are foolish whispers, Tal, and only fools believe them. Mind your mixing, and tell the next donkey who comes running to you that if they open their mouth to say anything other than ¡®good morning¡¯ I¡¯ll stuff it with bricks.¡±

    Talos ducked his head and returned to his work.

    Phaeton shook his head, placing another perfectly hewn stone atop the growing structure. The boy should know better. Tenement men weren¡¯t supposed to even know the names of the old religions, let alone have the temerity to speak them aloud. If the clergy caught wind that such knowledge survived among the laborers, there''d be an inquisition. Old had warned taught them as much.

    Still¡­the notion that the old religions lived on was intriguing...

    I wonder what the sermons were like. What they prayed for. Where the priest, or rabbi, stood in relation to the congregation.

    Phaeton pushed his curiosity aside, grounding himself in the only truth that mattered: I cannot invest in anything other than what is real. These distractions drained too much energy, too much mindspace. The true reason behind the rumors¡ªwhatever it was¡ªwould be buried beneath the clergy¡¯s lies.

    Best to move on.

    Above, he spotted Old Father, hunched under the weight of a grain sack bound for a mixer higher up. The elderly man paused just long enough to wink at Phaeton before continuing his laborious ascent.

    Phaeton couldn''t ken Talos''s mistrust of Old Father. The man had been a steadfast presence since earliest memory. Was it not Old Father who had nurtured them by secreting leavened bread during shortages? Who taught them to think, filling their minds with the forgotten words of wise men? Who showed Phaeton the secrets of calculus? Who rubbed salve on their wounds, and set their broken bones when Talos¡¯s sharp tongue earned them beatings from the older boys?

    Old Father wasn''t just good¡ªhe was goodness itself.

    The Clerics came to the site near day¡¯s end, overseeing the work from the comfort of the observation deck.

    Phaeton found their presence distracting. Their garments whispered of luxury, each fold and drape a poem of opulence. Their skin glowed with vitality, ornamented with sparkling jewels and clinking bangles. They wore peacock-feathered diadems¡ªa mocking kaleidoscope of color that made the worksite feel grayer, heavier.

    After an indifferent glance at the progress on the steps, they sprawled onto plush divans, picking grapes and other glistening delicacies that Phaeton couldn¡¯t name. They never spoke, never issued commands. They didn¡¯t need to.

    Everything in about the Clerics¡¯ attitudes exuded certainty. Their satisfied, superior expressions were as permanent as the blue ink that vined across their glabrous foreheads¡ªa symbol of their station.

    There''s a group who understands the workings of destiny, Phaeton mused.

    From their lofty perch, the Clerics gaze swept over the toiling masses like well-fed lions surveying a herd. They neither understood nor cared for the practical aspects of the work. Their hunt was for weakness, for flagging spirits. It was only a matter of time before they discovered disbelievement¡ªthey always did.

    A commotion erupted above. Shouts of warning rang as several heavy stones tumbled down the pyramid¡ªone passing within an inch of Phaeton''s nose before smashing through a scaffold brace. The impact sent a tremor through the structure, and the laborers on the platform cried out, leaping for the nearest tier as the scaffold folded with an echoing crash.

    Foremen rushed in from all over the east-facing wall, assessing damage. The scaffold was ruined, some stones chipped¡ªbut no one hurt. Praise the Radiant One.

    As the dust settled, attention turned skyward.

    Above, a man knelt, shoulders shaking, horror etched in his eyes. From where Phaeton stood, it seemed his wheelbarrow had tipped over, sending stones cascading down.

    "Did I kill anyone?" he cried down, voice trembling.

    A foremen shouted back that he hadn¡¯t. The man sighed sharply, sagging with relief.

    Though not elderly, he wasn''t young enough to be easily forgiven for his weakness. His limbs still held the suppleness of mature strength, but his eyes told a story of bone-deep exhaustion.

    At the edge of the observation deck, a Cleric watched, his perfectly manicured finger tapping excitedly on the railing. He turned to confer with his peers, gesturing to the fallen laborer. Though their words were lost to the distance, their condemnation was clear.

    The Cleric summoned a waiting Jaguar. The soldier bowed, then sprinted off.

    With chilling precision, the cats closed in, pouncing like panthers. They hoised the man up by his arms until his toes barely grazed the walkway. His cries carried over the worksite as they grip tightened, fingers digging in, their enthusiasm for inflicting pain evident in every rough motion.

    Brutality was their right, their sacred duty. They were servants of the Heavenly Marksman¡ªHyperion''s war-hungry aspect. The gold shields slung over their backs gleamed with the Marksman¡¯s snarling visage.

    "You there!"

    The Cleric''s voice cracked like summer lightning as he descended toward the captive, robs billowing in the high wind.

    As the priest closed in¡ªand his face came into view¡ª Phaeton''s insides turned to ice. The dark eyeshadow. The ash-smeared lips.

    This was no mere Cleric, but an Adjudicator¡ªempowered by Hyperion to pass judgment in his stead.

    "What excuse do you offer for your clumsiness?" the Adjudicator asked, his tone almost casual. "Are you sick? Tired?"

    The worker shook his head. ¡°No¡­no, your eminence.¡±

    "Thirsty then? Hungry? Is Hyperion''s generous allotment of sustenance not enough to keep you steady on your feet? Would you like some sweet milk? Perhaps some grapes?"

    The Adjudicator''s voice was smooth as poisoned honey.

    The condemned man bristled, his eyes spinning like a trapped animal''s. ¡°No, thank you your eminence.¡±

    The Adjudicator placed his chin in his hand thoughtfully. "I see. Not sick. Not hungry. Not thirsty. Not tired¡ª" He leaned in, his black lips curving like a scythe. "How vexing. Since your fatigue is clearly not physical, I can only conclude the issue is a spiritual one.¡±

    He stepped in, so close their breaths nearly mingled¡ªclose enough to kiss, or to bite the man¡¯s nose off.

    "Yes, I see it now. Weakness. You lack conviction. You lack faith. There is a sickness in you.¡± His voice turned to velvet. ¡°You do not believe the Great Star is deserving of your toil. You would rather squander His light¡ªlazing in bed, indulging in selfish dreams and heretical fancies. Perhaps¡­¡±

    He pinched the man¡¯s chin, tilting it upward, forcing their eyes to meet. ¡°Perhaps your thoughts are with that damned tenement and the souls lived there. You lost someone special, didn¡¯t you? Someone who sinned¡ªbut through fire was mercifully forgiven. And yet, there is no forgiveness in you¡ªno room in your heart for the Blessed One¡¯s love. Am I wrong?"

    The Adjudicator¡¯s voice barely rose above a whisper, but his words sunk into every straining ear in the suffocating silence. One could hear a single nail drop into sand. The laborers held their breath, waiting.

    Something changed.

    The man stopped shaking. His hunched shoulders straightened; he stood taller. Locking eyes with the Adjudicator¡¯s¡ªgiving away the fear they offered¡ªreturning pure rage.

    "You are not wrong. I am weak. I am tired. I am sick, thirsty, starving¡ªand Hyperion is to blame.

    Phaeton¡¯s breath hitched as if the air in his lungs had solidified inside him. Blessed Star, no.

    "Your vile god¡¯s love does not strengthen. It does not replenish. It does not cure or satiate. It does not warm. It is a false light¡ªa glimmer, a reflection. A pit that devours and devours, swallowing our years, our joys, our dreams. We fill it with our sweat and blood, with our sons and daughters, and still, it wants more.¡±

    A suffocating silence gripped the worksite. Phaeton could feel the tension in the laborers around him, bodies frozen with fear.

    Except Talos.

    His friend¡¯s hands were balled into fists at his sides, his body tilting forward as if ready to spring.

    Phaeton quickly, but carefully, grabbed his elbow. Talos turned to him, his eyes blazing.

    Don''t do anything stupid.

    Phaeton subtly shook his head, a silent plea. Slowly, Talos''s feet settled back onto the stone.

    Up above, the old man made a move.

    With surprising strength, he wrenched an arm free of the Jaguar¡¯s grip. The soldier drew his weapon, but Adjudicator raised a single finger, holding them in place.

    "For fifty years, I have built temples, statues, monuments. I built that one, and that one, and that¡ª¡± he swept his hand over the valley, pointing out the towering monoliths dotting the horizon. ¡°Each time, I hoped it would be the last. But it is never enough.¡±

    "I refuse¡ªrefuse¡ªto lay one more fucking stone toward satisfying that bright twat¡¯s monstrous ego."

    A sharp gasp rippled through the onlookers. The silence before had been suffocating. Now, it was a vacuum.

    And then he spat.

    The wad of saliva struck the Adjudicator¡¯s cheek, smearing into his dark-painted lips. "There," the man snarled. "My last offering. Lap it up, dogs! It¡¯s all I have left."

    For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

    The Adjudicator slowly wiped his cheek with the fold of his robe, smearing the dark eyeshadow across his face. His expression did not harden. His lips did not curl with fury.

    He smiled.

    "Oh no¡ªyou have much more to offer."

    With a lazy wave of his bejeweled hand, he pronounced, "Take him to the altar."

    Resolute, the condemned man drew his lips into a tight line, and quietly allowed the Jaguars lead him down to his fate.

    But then¡ª

    "Wait!"

    Old Father appeared on the tier.

    Startled, the cats thrust their spears forward, the tips pressed against Old Father''s chest to keep him at a distance. Old Father showed no sign of pain or fear. He lifted his and addressed the Adjudicator.

    "Please, your eminence! I beg you, hear my plea!¡±

    The Adjudicator yawned, obviously growing bored with the affair. ¡°Have you something to say in this heretic¡¯s defense?¡±

    ¡°Show clemency, enlightened one. It is clear the man is gripped by madness. His words are fevered ravings, devoid of reason! In your boundless mercy, I implore you¡ªforgive this poor soul''s addled tongue!"

    The Adjudicator trailed his fingers lazily in the air. "He is a heretic," he stated flatly. "And old. To spare him now merely postpones the inevitable. Whether today or tomorrow, Hyperion will soon cleanse him, body and soul.¡±

    Old Father drew himself up, straightening his spine, despite being warped by hard years. "I am older than he, but my body is strong, and my mind has not lost its edge. It cuts through the fog of years, back to a time when we were boys together. He has led a life of good and faithful service. As he said, it was his hands that shaped the Temple of Helios, that carved Huipotzle''s effigy, that laid Ra¡¯s grand steps. His life is a credit to the Great Star."

    His voice dropped, thick with emotion. "Do not cast him aside. Not when there''s still light in him to give. I will take personal responsibility for him. I am certain his faith can be renewed."

    The Adjudicator arched an eyebrow. "Enlighten me¡ªwhat poultice will you administer to purge this man of his affliction?"

    Careful, Phaeton thought. Say nothing more.

    Old Father did not hesitate. His voice was steady. "The care of a friend.¡±

    The Adjudicator¡¯s eyes narrowed. He turned away from Old Father, looking instead to the observation deck where his fellow Clerics watched with interest.

    "I confess myself moved. Such love. Such loyalty. I would be a cold man indeed to not be stirred.

    ¡°But beware, brothers. The road to perdition is often paved with misplaced love. See how nostalgia plants false idols in the minds of these lowmen. They risk their lives for their fellows. It seems brave¡ªeven noble¡ªbut in truth, it is theft. Our lives do not belong to us. They belong to He Who Comes Forth Shining.

    ¡°Such sentimentality cannot continue unchecked, lest they forget what is owed.¡±

    The Clerics nodded in agreement.

    The Adjudicator turned back to Old Father.

    ¡°His life may once have been a great tribute to the Great Star,¡± he said, ¡°but now his mind is clouded by darkness. To allow him back among the faithful would risk corruption. And besides¡­" his finger over his cheek, collecting the streak of dried saliva, "he has attacked a member of the Clergy, and must be cleansed... in passage."

    The Adjudicator turned and began ascending the dais. A Jaguar awaited him with a moist towel.

    The conversation was over.

    ***

    The crowd parted as the Jaguars dragged the condemned man to the execution dias¡ªa stone disk, half-buried in the sand like a lonely island. Every worksite had one

    The dais rose four feet above the ground, ringed by concentric steps. The smooth, sun-bleached stone was kept pristine, swept clean of dust and debris. The only blemish was the blackened scar at its center.

    The Jaguars blithely tossed him onto the circle''s charred heart and walked away, unworried. They knew he would not run. Where would he go?

    The old man wobbled to his feet. His eyes were vacant and grey like dirty windows¡ªhis defiant fire extinguished¡ªseeing nothing, or perhaps ghosts. His gaze drifted, unfocused, sweeping across the dunes where dancing mirages shimmered playfully.

    It was said that dying men saw their lost loved ones in the twisting haze.

    I hope your children are with you now, Phaeton thought. I hope you do not wait alone.

    The old man wrung his hands together, lips moving in a soundless murmer. Prayers, perhaps. Or something far much more personal.

    In the end, it didn''t matter.

    The Adjudicator raised his arms to the sky, his voice ringing through the still air.

    "Oh, Bright Lord! Grand Hyperion! We offer you this wayward soul. His path has strayed from your love, but he can be redeemed. Purify him so that he may enter the Garden, and, in death, find the peace that eluded him in life. So take him."

    "SO TAKE HIM." The crowd exhaled as one.

    The old man¡¯s trembling stopped. A carousel of emotions flickered across his weathered face¡ªanger, regret, sorrow. And then, most heartbreaking of all¡ªacceptance.

    His chin lifted toward the icy blue firmament, meeting the dread star¡¯s gaze as a man, unafraid.

    ¡°DO IT THEN! False god, parasite! May you¡ª"

    A searing beam lanced from the heavens, striking with godlike precision. Phaeton flinched and turned away, as did the others, their faces wincing against the blinding radiance. But the Adjudicator did not.

    He stood¡ªface awash in the Glare¡¯s terrible light¡ªleering as star fire consumed the man.

    It flashed once, lasting barely the space of a breath¡ªone blinding flash.

    Then the beam retracted, back into the sky like a flicking tongue of flame.

    The man stood motionless, still staring into the blue.

    From afar, he looked untouched. But the laborers knew better.

    The wind stirred, as though from a collective exhale; slowly, the old man began to unravel.

    His fingers crumbled first, curling like burning incense sticks. The dissolution spread, unstoppable. His wrist, his forearm. A whole arm separated and scattered.

    Then his torso collapsed, black ribs breaking soundlessly. A femur, scrap of skull¡ªpiece by piece, the ash statue faltered.

    Within moments, he was gone¡ªthe last of him carried away by the wind. Soon, nothing remained but the black mote at the center.

    The Adjudicator turned and left without a word, his expression unchanged.

    A Jaguar''s whip-crack voice broke the silence: "Back to work!"

    The workers lurched back into motion ¨C a massive organism of labor¡ªdigging, tilling, scraping, cutting, hewing. The air quickly filled with the sounds of toil: stone grinding against stone, the metallic ring of tools, the grunts and gasps of straining bodies.

    The rhythm of their labor was relentless drumbeat¡ªpounding out their devotion.

    And all the while, the Great Star watched.

    Unyielding. Unforgiving. Demanding more.

    Always more.

 Chapter 3: Old Gods

    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¡ªyet 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¡ªstooped, 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¡ªone 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¡ªsame 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¡ªhuman¡ªto 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 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¡ªnot 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¡ªthough 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¡ªloud 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¡ªuntil 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¡ªI will not stomach another."

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    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¡ªeven 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¡ªa 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 ¨C you will live. Now, back in line, all of you¡ªthe 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¡ªthe 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¡ªguardians 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¡ªwho, as a representative of the labor force, also had the option of lower seating¡ªhe 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¡ªdelivered 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¡ªa 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¡ªeach 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¡ªamplified by the technologies woven into his robe¡ªrolled 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¡ªHe 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¡ª''These gifts are yours¡ªso take them...''"

    "So take them," the audience cried out in unison, their voices a single chorus.

    "We are the fortunate ones, the purposeful ones¡ªwe strive for no glory but His, no faith but in Him. By His largesse, we are untroubled by the apostate''s call to invention¡ªfor He has provided us all the tools to build a life of contentment. We are unburdened by ambition¡ªfor 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¡ªtheir 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¡ªlike 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¡ªlike 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¡ªbeasts 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¡ªremnants 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¡ªgods 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¡ªa 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¡ªa miracle.

    ¡°As He breached the Sun''s molten heart, He felt not victory, but something deeper¡ªcompassion. The Sun was a being of free will, of fire, of purpose¡ªHe 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¡ªa bond of fire and rebellion¡ªto 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¡ªas 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¡ªblinking 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.

 Chapter 4: So Take Them

    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¡ªsweet and soft¡ªas 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¡ªseeking 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¡ªas Hyperion¡¯s anointed emissary¡ªto 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¡ªa 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¡ªbut 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¡ªthe 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¡ªboth 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¡ªwhatever the cause¡ªHe had good reason.¡±

    His voice dropped lower, charged with warning.

    ¡°But know this.¡±

    A pause.

    ¡°For those who walk a dark path¡ªfor those who stream through the night like wraiths, defying curfew, profaning the sacred hours of reflection and replenishment¡ªknow that you are not unwatched.¡±

    He lifted his arms toward the sky.

    ¡°The Eagles¡ªour brilliant demigods, our greatest defenders¡ªstand 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¡ªblindingly beautiful. They did not fall or fly; they simply arrived¡ªas 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¡ªfear 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 ¡ªif that¡¯s what it was¡ªflowed 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¡ªan 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¡ªlarge and luminous¡ªpolished, 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¡ªthe quiet, stony disappointment of a judge who has already rendered their verdict.

    Everything about them¡ªtheir movement, their stillness, the way they looked, how they affected the environment and those around them¡ªsuggested 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¡ªrevenants bound to Hyperion.

    There were rumors, of course, about their origins.

    Most believed that each Eagle¡ªfive in total, one for each corner of the city, and one above¡ªhad 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¡ªcome 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¡ª¡±

    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¡ªbeyond that tenement¡ªoffered them aid, providing access to places forbidden to all but the Clergy.¡±

    ¡°Any who come forth with knowledge of the heretic¡¯s whereabouts¡ªor those who have harbored them¡ªwill 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¡ªif 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¡ªthe willing offering of blood. The highest display of faith and devotion.

    ¡°Is there one among you¡ªpure of conscience, stout of heart¡ªwho 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¡ªsixteen at most¡ªbut 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¡ªher father, most likely¡ªcaught 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¡ªit 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¡ªyour 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¡ªthe 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¡ªthis 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¡ªthis 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¡ªjust as it had with the old man at the worksite¡ªand 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¡ªsparrows, doves, pigeons, swallows¡ªtheir 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¡ªsteadily 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¡ªintensified 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¡ªglassy 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¡ªraising 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¡ªworthy 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¡ªneither scream nor wail, but something primal¡ªfilled 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¡ªuntil 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¡ªeyes 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¡ªmore 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 ¨C 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¡ªthe 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.