The first light of Soil's Turn, on the 26th day of the month of High Sun, was a pale, grey promise seeping over the distant peaks of the Spire Mountains. It was a light Rhys knew better than the sound of his own name. It was the colour of waking, the colour that meant the cool, damp earth of the Echoing Plains was waiting for his bare feet.
He lay still on his straw-stuffed mattress, listening. The first sound was never the birdsong or the lowing of the milk-cow, Brynn. It was the soft, rhythmic scrape of his father's whetstone on the blade of his scythe. A sound of purpose. A sound of peace.
Rhys slipped from his bed, the rough-spun linen of his tunic cool against his skin. The single room of their cottage was filled with the familiar scents of slumber, woodsmoke from last night's embers, and the faint, sweet smell of dried herbs his mother, Alyssa, hung from the rafters.
His father, Dillon, was a silhouette against the open doorway, a broad-shouldered man whose strength seemed as natural and constant as the rising sun. He did not pray with grand words or bowed knees. As the first true rays of sunlight spilled over the mountain peaks and painted the plains in hues of gold and rose, Dillon simply paused his work. He held the sharpened scythe in one hand, lifted his face to the warmth, and closed his eyes.
Rhys saw his father's lips move, though no sound came out. It was a Whisper. That is what they called it. A quiet, personal conversation with the God who was always listening. Rhys had seen him do it a thousand times. A Whisper of thanks for the sun. A Whisper of hope for the rains. A Whisper of love for his family.
"Rhys," his mother's voice was warm and soft from the hearth, where she was already coaxing the embers back to life. "Come, a bit of porridge before the fields."
He sat at the small, sturdy wooden table his father had built, a bowl of warm, honey-sweetened porridge warming his hands.
"He is anxious for the festival, this one," Alyssa said, smiling as she ran a hand through Rhys's tangled brown hair. "He could barely sleep."
Dillon turned from the doorway, his face crinkling into a smile that made his stern features gentle. "And why not? A day of no weeding, Alyssa's honey-cakes, and a chance to see the storyteller. Even I am anxious for it."
"You are anxious for the honey-cakes," Alyssa teased, and the cottage filled with easy laughter.
The Festival of Echoing Light. It was only two days away. It was the best day of the year, a day the whole village of Oakhaven celebrated the longest day of sunlight. A day, the elders said, that Qy'iel Himself often chose to walk among them. For a seven-year-old boy, it was the grandest sort of magic.
After their breakfast, Rhys followed his father out into the vast, open world. The Echoing Plains stretched out in every direction, a sea of green and gold grasses that swayed and danced in the morning breeze. Their farm was a small patch of darker, richer soil carved into this sea, a testament to his family's hard work. In the far distance, the jagged, impossibly tall peaks of the Spire Mountains clawed at the sky, a constant, silent monument on the horizon. The world felt immense, but it never felt empty. It felt safe.
His job for the morning was simple: to pull the stubborn thistle-weeds from the rows of sprouting barley. It was tedious work, the thorny stems pricking his fingers, but he didn't truly mind. He worked alongside his father, the steady swoosh-thump of Dillon's scythe cutting the overgrown grasses at the edge of the field a comforting rhythm.
"Father?" Rhys asked, holding up a particularly stubborn weed, its deep root trailing a long tail of dark earth. "Was Qy'iel always here? Before the plains?"
Dillon paused, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. He looked out across the land, his eyes seeing something more than just grass and soil.
"The elders say Qy'iel was here before the mountains," he said, his voice deep and thoughtful. "That He shaped them with His hands and breathed life into this very soil. They say He is not in the world, Rhys. He is the world. The sun on your face, the wind in the grass, the strength in your hands. It is all Him." He smiled. "Now, that weed won't pull itself. Qy'iel gives us the good earth, but He expects us to tend it."
Rhys nodded, turning back to his task with a renewed sense of purpose. He was not just pulling weeds. He was helping Qy'iel tend to the world.
Later that day, when the sun was high and hot, he and his mother took their midday meal to the village center. Oakhaven was not a large place, a few dozen stone-and-timber cottages nestled around a central well and a wide, grassy common. But today, it was bustling with a vibrant energy. Preparations for the festival were in full swing. Women sat in circles under the shade of the great oak that gave the village its name, weaving garlands of wildflowers and sun-colored ribbons. The baker, a large, flour-dusted man named Borin, was already stoking his outdoor oven, the air filling with the delicious promise of festival bread.
Rhys sat on the edge of the central well, munching on a piece of hard cheese, and listened to Elder Hayley. She was the oldest person in the village, her face a roadmap of wrinkles and her eyes a pair of cloudy, blue jewels that seemed to hold every story ever told.
"...and so Qy'iel saw that the first settlers were digging with their bare hands, their nails broken and bleeding," she said, her voice raspy but captivating. A group of younger children sat at her feet, enthralled. "He came not as a god, but as a traveler, his face smudged with dirt. He asked for a drink of water. They shared what little they had. And in return, He picked up a fallen branch, and with a Whisper, He hardened its tip into a point as strong as stone. He showed them how to make the first shovel. He worked alongside them until the first well was dug."
Hayley smiled, a slow, gummy expression. "He has never asked for temples of stone or sacrifices of blood. He asks only that you share your water with a thirsty traveler. That is the way of Qy'iel."
Finally, the day of the Festival of Echoing Light arrived. The air itself felt different, humming with anticipation. Rhys was dressed in his finest tunic, the one Alyssa saved for special days. As dusk began to settle, the entire village gathered in the common. A great bonfire was lit in the center, its flames leaping and dancing towards the darkening sky. Long tables were laden with food, roasted chickens, steaming loaves of Borin's bread, bowls of berries, and, to Rhys's delight, a whole platter of Alyssa's golden honey-cakes.
Lutes played a cheerful tune, and people laughed and talked. As the last sliver of the sun vanished behind the Spire Mountains, one by one, the villagers lit their own small lanterns. Soon, the entire common was bathed in the warm, gentle glow of a hundred tiny, man-made stars.
It was in this soft light that He arrived.
There was no clap of thunder or blinding flash. One moment, there was an empty space by the bonfire, and the next, a man was standing there, warming his hands by the flames. He looked like any other traveler who might pass through the plains. He wore a simple, dust-colored robe, and his feet were bare. His hair was the color of wheat, and his face was kind, lined with the faintest traces of a smile. But his eyes… his eyes were deep and calm, and within them, if you looked closely, seemed to swirl the light of the very stars that were beginning to pepper the night sky.
A hush of reverent joy fell over the crowd. It was Qy'iel.
He smiled, a gesture that seemed to warm the air more than the bonfire itself. "The bread smells wonderful, Borin," He said, his voice as calm and clear as water from a deep well. The baker swelled with pride. Qy'iel moved through the crowd, greeting people by name, asking about their children, admiring the garlands. He was not a king receiving his subjects; he was a friend returning home.
Overwhelmed by the moment, Rhys slipped away from his parents' side, needing a moment to simply breathe. He wandered to the edge of the common, where the lantern light faded into the moonlit plains. He crouched down, watching a small, pale-green moth flutter around a milkweed flower.
"It is a lunar moth," a quiet voice said beside him.
Rhys jumped, startled. It was Qy'iel, standing so close Rhys could have reached out and touched his robe. The boy's heart hammered in his chest, and he felt suddenly shy.
"They only fly in the brightest moonlight," Qy'iel continued, crouching down to Rhys's level. His starry eyes watched the moth with genuine interest. "They spend their whole lives waiting for a night like this."
Rhys, finding his voice, whispered, "It's beautiful."
Qy'iel looked from the moth to Rhys, and his smile deepened. "Yes, it is." He held out his hand, palm open. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a soft, silvery light began to pool in his palm, a light that did not burn or cast heat, but simply was. The lunar moth, as if drawn by a familiar call, left the flower and fluttered down to land in the center of the gentle glow.
Then another came. And another. From the darkness of the plains, dozens, then hundreds, of the pale-green moths emerged, each one a tiny, living lantern. They swirled around Qy'iel and Rhys, a silent, breathtaking vortex of soft light and whispering wings. They danced in the air, their light pulsing in time with a rhythm only they could hear.
Rhys stared, his mouth agape, his heart filled with a wonder so pure it felt like a prayer.
Qy'iel watched him, not the moths. "Never forget, little one," He said softly, his voice a personal Whisper meant only for Rhys. "Even in the deepest dark, always look for the small lights. They are always there, waiting to dance."
He closed his hand, and the light vanished. The moths, their brief, magical ballet concluded, dispersed back into the moonlit darkness. Qy'Iel gave Rhys a gentle nod, then stood and walked back toward the heart of the festival.
Rhys scrambled back to his parents, his mind reeling with impossible joy. "Mother! Father! I saw Him! He showed me, the moths, they glowed, and they danced!"
Alyssa knelt and brushed a stray piece of grass from his hair, her expression one of gentle, knowing love. "Of course they did, my dear," she said. "That is His way."
Later that night, drowsy and full to bursting with food and wonder, Rhys rode home on his father's strong shoulders. He looked back at the receding glow of the Oakhaven festival, a warm beacon in the vast, peaceful darkness of the plains. He was safe. He was loved. He lived in a world where the sky was kind, the earth was generous, and God was a friend who knew how to make moths dance.
He closed his eyes, certain that nothing could ever, ever change that.