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—as 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 – 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—twas a Glare.”

  Phaeton blinked. "What?"

  “Aye—Eagle’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 – 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—a 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—cloaked 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—the 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—always 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—"

  "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—they 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—one 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—like 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—the 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—structural 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—slowly, 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—Old 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—a meditative peace.

  Building, striving upward—it 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—these were the pillars of his life. In his private heart, he needed no higher purpose.

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  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—but 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—somehow—was 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—you know the one—it 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—since 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—whatever it was—would 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—he 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—a 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—a 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—they always did.

  A commotion erupted above. Shouts of warning rang as several heavy stones tumbled down the pyramid—one 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—but 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—Hyperion'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—and his face came into view— Phaeton's insides turned to ice. The dark eyeshadow. The ash-smeared lips.

  This was no mere Cleric, but an Adjudicator—empowered 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—" 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—close 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—lazing 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—but through fire was mercifully forgiven. And yet, there is no forgiveness in you—no 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—giving away the fear they offered—returning pure rage.

  "You are not wrong. I am weak. I am tired. I am sick, thirsty, starving—and 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—a 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—” 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—refuse—to 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—you 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—

  "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—forgive 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—what 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—even noble—but 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—a 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—his defiant fire extinguished—seeing 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—anger, regret, sorrow. And then, most heartbreaking of all—acceptance.

  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 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—face awash in the Glare’s terrible light—leering as star fire consumed the man.

  It flashed once, lasting barely the space of a breath—one 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—piece by piece, the ash statue faltered.

  Within moments, he was gone—the 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 – a massive organism of labor—digging, 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—pounding out their devotion.

  And all the while, the Great Star watched.

  Unyielding. Unforgiving. Demanding more.

  Always more.