The day of the Sunday Farewell Ceremony, the one that Master Jin Xiu had so often reminded her of, finally arrived.
It came not with thunder or urgency, but with the quiet grace of sand slipping through a golden hourglass—inevitable, delicate, and slow.
High above the mortal world, nestled between drifting cloud seas, stood a palace forged from sunlight and dreams. Its vast halls shimmered beneath the golden glow of morning, while its towering spires pierced the azure sky. The palace shimmered in a divine spectrum—golden brilliance interwoven with sapphire calm—giving it the illusion of something not built, but imagined into being by the heavens themselves.
Above the palace floated a starwheel—an enormous celestial disc slowly turning in midair. It was a kaleidoscope of constellations, radiant and ever-shifting, like the all-seeing eye of the cosmos itself. It shimmered with mysterious hues—amethyst, emerald, gold—its slow spin casting ribbons of starlight across the clouds.
As it turned, a soft hum vibrated through the air, long and resonant, echoing like a lullaby from distant stars.
Even in such grandeur, within one chamber in the eastern wing, a scene of mundane urgency played out.
"Vera! If you don't get out of bed this instant, you're going to be late!" Gui Xia's voice cut through the sleepy hush like a blade of firelight. She was standing beside her daughter's bed, her richly embroidered phoenix robe flaring with every agitated movement. Sunset hues swirled in silken waves around her feet as she shook Vera's shoulders, voice sharp with frustration.
"This is the ceremony, child! Not a tea party!"
Behind her, standing stiff as a tree, was Chi Ling—Vera's father. He said nothing. He didn't have to.
With a silent sigh, he reached down and gave his daughter's cheek a firm pinch.
"Ow!" Vera yelped, her eyes flying open.
The pain shot her straight out of dreamland. Her first bleary sight was the looming figures of her parents—her mother's eyes burning with fire, her father's mouth drawn into a stern line.
She sat up slowly, rubbing her cheek and frowning.
"…Father, how many times have I asked you not to just walk into my room like that?"
Chi Ling huffed, waving his long sleeve with theatrical exasperation. "Do you think I want to be here? Your mother has been calling your name for over an hour. If you had responded, I would be somewhere much more peaceful right now."
He paused, arms crossed.
"Besides. This is not just another day. It's the Farewell Ceremony. Do you even realize what that means?"
That got her attention.
Vera's sleepy haze evaporated. She reached for the small mirror beside her bed and lifted it to her face.
A tousled mess of dark hair. Puffy, sleep-heavy eyes. A faint red mark where her father had pinched her.
She groaned.
Then her gaze shifted toward the small phoenix figurine perched on her bedside table. Its mechanical wings ticked forward once with a small click—counting time like a heartbeat.
Her stomach dropped.
"I still have… one hour before the main bell…" she muttered, calculating in her head. "If I move fast enough, I can make it."
Without waiting for further scolding, she shooed her parents out the door and darted into the bathing chamber. Water splashed, steam curled into the ceiling, and the scent of sweet lotus blossoms filled the room. She moved swiftly—washing, brushing, preparing her skin and hair with practiced hands, each movement deliberate.
She worked in silence.
Not because she was calm—but because her thoughts were too loud.
The Farewell Ceremony… The eyes of the court, the elders, the starwheel… and Master Jin Xiu. I can't afford to falter. Not today.
When she emerged, her long hair was neatly coiled behind her head, bound in a ribbon of crimson silk. Her skin glowed faintly with the warmth of incense water, her eyes sharper now, reflecting her determination.
Before her wardrobe, she stood in solemn silence.
Rows of dresses awaited her—a rainbow of choices in silk and cloudweave. She scanned each one, fingertips brushing lightly along the embroidered hems until she stopped before one: a long, radiant gown of fiery floral motifs that swirled like blooming flames.
She dressed quickly, then checked herself in the mirror. Once. Twice. A third time.
Only when she was satisfied did she reach for the final, most important piece.
A brooch.
Shaped like a phoenix in mid-flight, wings arched upward, cast in warm gold with a single red gem set at its heart.
It was more than jewelry. It was her symbol.
It had been given to her by Master Jin Xiu during one of their quiet walks beneath the starlit courtyard, and with it came a message: You are a daughter of the Phoenix. Never forget who you are. Or who walks beside you.
Her hand trembled slightly as she pinned it to her chest.
She ran her fingers over its wings—delicate lines etched into the metal that pulsed faintly beneath her touch, as though the spirit of the phoenix lived within it still.
Not merely an ornament.
But a reminder.
Of fire.
Of lineage.
Of choice.
Of everything she stood for.
When belief is deep and unwavering… can it become eternal?
She had asked that once, a long time ago, her voice small in the shadow of the great lantern trees.
Master Jin Xiu had not answered immediately. Instead, he had offered her one of his quiet, enigmatic smiles—the kind that seemed to see far beyond the veil of time.
"Faith," he had said, "can be built upon the pure hearts of many. But it can also be forged through flesh, through suffering, through hearts long soaked in darkness."
Then he had leaned close, his eyes gleaming like twin stars. "So tell me, Vera… what do you believe eternity means?"
"Is it simply something that never dies?"
"Or… is eternity the kind of truth that keeps burning long after the body has turned to ash? A belief so fierce it transcends the soul?"
Vera had never forgotten those words.
And today, as the palace echoed with preparations, as bells began to chime softly in the distance and the scent of incense curled through the air like an omen—she held those words close.
She straightened her spine.
Took one last glance in the mirror.
Then walked toward the ceremony, not as a sleepy girl dragged from bed…
But as the daughter of the phoenix, stepping forward beneath a turning sky.