The shrines flickered brighter that night.
In the lower quarters of Solaris, where alleys ran like veins of soot and families huddled in rooms no wider than a stall, people gathered before bowls of ash and feathers. They whispered prayers, not to Everhart, whose name had long faded from memory, but to the Savior whose wings they believed sheltered them.
Children knelt, their hands clasped around glowing embers that should have burned but only warmed. A mother pressed a feather to her infant's chest, whispering, "Breathe, little one, the Savior will keep you safe." When the child stirred, her tears became devotion.
Merchants closed their shops to join in chants that rolled like thunder between stone walls. Every shrine's fire pulsed together, synchronized, as if a single heartbeat rippled through the city. In the glow, some swore they saw shadows move—vast wings stretching across rooftops, talons curling over towers.
"The Phoenix watches!" someone cried. The call spread, echoing from street to street until it became a tide of voices.
Yet not all bowed in joy. A boy, no older than twelve, watched the shrines flare too brightly, shadows crawling unnaturally long across the stones. His grandmother, once a child named Lira who had touched the first feather, whispered hoarsely, "This is not the Savior. This is hunger."
But her words drowned beneath the chorus of thousands. The city sang, and the fire burned, and above it all, Ashen's will coiled tighter around Solaris's soul.
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