The years that followed came to be known as the Age of Enlightenment, though no one used the name at first. It was quieter than that—life unfolding in measured, certain steps, the way rain fills dry earth. Elurinda rediscovered itself, its rhythm constant and full, with the Orb’s hum beneath it all. It wasn’t loud, but it threaded through everything—the laughter in the market, the murmured verses of potters shaping clay in the half-light of morning. No one spoke of it directly, but you could hear it in the way their voices lifted, not with hope exactly, but with something firmer. As if tomorrow wasn’t just promised—it was already here.

  Elurinda blossomed. Gardens spilled out past fences, claiming the empty corners between stone walls. The blooms weren’t ordinary things. Their petals opened in unfamiliar shapes, the kind of colors that made you stop mid-step, unsure if you should call them beautiful or strange. Children cupped the flowers in their hands, their laughter loud but soft at the edges, as though they knew not to take too many. There was something delicate in the air, something that felt too perfect to hold for long.

  The fields became oceans of grain, heavy with life. The crops were healthy—too healthy. Their roots grew deep and tangled, twisting through the soil with the kind of greed that trees shouldn’t have. The stalks bent, thick and gold, before the scythes could reach them.

  The orchards grew without pause; their branches never stilled, their leaves too green, too polished in the sunlight. There were no wilted blossoms, no fallen fruit softening in the dirt. The trees bore everything and lost nothing.

  The harvest came too fast for baskets to keep up. The smell of it filled the streets—warm bread, barley drying in the sun, crushed herbs from the feet of those who carried their arms full to the kitchens. And for the first time in anyone’s memory, the quiet ache of hunger became a stranger. The world felt rich, abundant in ways that defied what anyone had ever known.

  And the machines—oh, the machines. They weren’t made of iron or smoke, but of strange, quiet brilliance. They didn’t move with the noise of hammers or fire, no groan of gears. Instead, they thrummed with something quieter—light, bound and spun into movement. Bridges arched without pillars or beams, holding their shapes above the streets. The stone shimmered faintly where feet touched, a pulse beneath the surface that some swore made them feel lighter when they crossed.

  The healers spoke of wonders. Their hands settled gently over broken bones and shallow wounds, and as the hum beneath their palms grew stronger, the fractures began to knit. The wounded whispered afterward, touching their skin in disbelief—not because they didn’t believe it had healed, but because it seemed too easy. Too whole.

  The stories spread in the quiet way stories do. People leaned closer when they spoke of it. This was heaven, they said, or something near enough. Proof that the stars had bent low enough to touch. Some laughed as they said it, shaking their heads as if they could undo the wonder with disbelief. Others simply tilted their faces toward the sky, as if searching for the place where it had all begun.

  But Avelyn watched differently. She wanted to feel the ease that settled on the faces around her, but she couldn’t. She noticed things. Small things. A quiet, lingering wrongness hidden beneath the brilliance. She noticed the way the bridges didn’t just stand—they pulsed. The way the machines moved too smoothly, as though something more than starlight had made them come alive. And while others marveled at the flowers that bloomed in the alleys, she watched their roots. They twisted deeper than they should have, winding into knots, binding the earth tighter than it could hold.

  The flowers didn’t wilt. Leaves never browned. The orchards were heavy with fruit, their branches bending with the weight. But the fruit didn’t fall. The trees didn’t shed. The seasons kept moving, but nothing ever faded. Growth pressed forward, unrelenting, perfect in a way that made the world feel fragile in its stillness.

  And then there were the shadows. They didn’t fall where they should have—too long when the sun was at its peak, too sharp in the cool stretch of twilight. She saw them pooling where they shouldn’t, clinging to spaces that should have stayed bright. Once, near the grove, she stopped mid-step, her breath catching. Her own shadow had slipped, not with her but just behind—a half a breath too late, its edges quivering as though something unseen had nudged it out of place.

  The stream that ran beside the orchard had always been calm—a place where children floated hollow reeds and watched dragonflies skim the water’s surface. Now, its flow was strange. It rushed forward in bursts, then slowed, its current unsettled. The surface caught and held the light wrong, glimmering at odd angles even in the shade.

  She said nothing at first. The city was too full of triumph for unease to find room. The people who had once questioned now stood straighter, their doubts drowned beneath the proof of their success. Even Tiran, who had been cautious to the point of stubbornness, moved through the streets with a lightness she hadn’t seen in him before.

  She watched him one morning beneath the hanging gardens. His hand brushed over a flower that bloomed in shifting shades—blue as the sky before rain, then darkening, heavy with the promise of a storm. His expression softened, eyes half-closed, as though the bloom was something he’d been waiting for his whole life. His shoulders, once braced against the world, had fallen into something close to ease. She barely recognized him without the weight of caution pressing into every line of his frame.

  And Nirion—he was everywhere. The streets spoke his name before he ever stepped foot in them. Children ran ahead to catch glimpses of his robes; merchants paused mid-call, their voices softening as though his presence made loud things seem unnecessary. He moved through Elurinda as though he belonged to every corner of it, pausing to place a hand on a shoulder to listen. The people called out to him from windows and terraces. He answered them all—never hurried, never faltering.

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  “The stars have spoken,” he would say. “And we are their answer.” His certainty wrapped itself around the city, soft but unbreakable. Even those who had once muttered in doubt now nodded along, the unease in their faces smoothing into quiet belief. There was no room left for fear—not when their leader moved through them as though he carried their future in his hands.

  “It was a brilliance too bright to last,” I say to my listeners. “But at the time, who could have known? When miracles become common, they stop feeling fragile. And when things stop feeling fragile, we forget how easily they can break.”

  But Avelyn still felt it—sharp and thin beneath the marvel of it all. She didn’t know what to call it, that quiet pull at the edges of her thoughts. The stories tell of her walking alone at twilight, watching the strange dance of shadows between the trees, listening to the pause between birdsong. Even the wind seemed unsure of its place, curling but never rushing, as though it, too, felt something was being held too tightly.

  She stood at the edge of the square one afternoon as the market thrived beneath the midday sky. Vendors called out with voices warmed by good fortune, their stalls brimming with produce so flawless it seemed almost painted. A child laughed—a bright sound, too perfect—and for a moment, Avelyn closed her eyes. She let the noise fill the space around her. But beneath it, there was the hum. Always the hum.

  When she opened her eyes, she noticed the crowd again. How their steps fell in time with it, how their smiles never wavered, not even in conversation. She watched their faces—the untroubled ease in their movements—and wondered how many of them remembered what it felt like to struggle. To want and to wait. To be denied.

  Avelyn walked with measured steps, her path leading her toward the Great Atrium. She hadn’t planned to be there, not consciously. And yet, the pull was strong, undeniable, drawing her through the arched halls until she reached the crowd that had gathered early, filling the stone floor beneath the high, glass ceiling. The atrium swelled with quiet anticipation, breath caught beneath sunlight that streamed in soft, golden threads.

  Nirion stood at the center, the light catching his robes—not enough to make him glow, but just enough to set him apart from the rest. His hands rested at his sides, open, unguarded. He didn’t need to call for silence. The moment he lifted his head, the murmurs hushed.

  Avelyn stayed near the outer arch, her hands clasped together, bracing herself against the pull of the crowd’s certainty. She wasn’t sure what she’d come to hear. Maybe she had only wanted to see if the shadow she’d glimpsed in his eyes that day by the terrace had returned—if it had grown or disappeared entirely.

  His voice rose, not loud, but deliberate, each word unfolding like the softest verse. “Our city has become the envy of the stars,” he said, and the people stirred, their awe murmuring through the space. “What we’ve built is not only for us—it’s for all who come after. A legacy of wonder, written across the sky itself.”

  The crowd’s quiet awe swelled and filled the atrium. Avelyn’s breath caught—not because of his words, but because she could see how they settled into the hearts around her. They clung to him like lifelines, rippling through the crowd and pushing doubt into the farthest corners, where it had no room to grow.

  Nirion took a step forward, and his voice softened—almost tender. “And yet,” he said, “we must be careful. We are the stewards of the stars’ gift, not its masters.”

  The stillness that followed felt deeper than silence. Even the hum of the Orb seemed to hush beneath the weight of it. Avelyn felt her pulse quicken. Was this it? Had he finally seen it too—the strain beneath the brilliance? The fault lines?

  But then his face shifted—strong again, the tender edges smoothed away. “Care does not mean fear,” he said, his words firm and unyielding. “It means purpose. We will not falter. We will not doubt.”

  The applause began slowly—a few hesitant claps, then a wave of sound rising until the whole atrium rang with it. Avelyn stayed where she was, unmoving, as though the air around her had thickened. She didn’t clap. The sound of their belief pressed against her ribs, and she felt more alone than ever.

  As the applause faded into the quiet hum of shifting bodies and murmured conversations, Nirion stepped down from the platform, the calm never leaving his face. People surged toward him, reaching out as though a touch, a glance, might anchor them more firmly in this newfound certainty. He stopped for each of them, nodding, clasping hands, his words too low to reach Avelyn where she stood. But she saw their faces—the way doubt fell from them like loose threads pulled from cloth.

  She stayed still, watching as he moved among them, a figure carved from something that didn’t break. He gave everything to them—his attention, his steadiness, his unwavering belief. And they took it gratefully, without question.

  The crowd began to thin, conversations drifting toward open doorways. The late afternoon light softened at the edges, drawing long shapes on the stone floor. Avelyn took a slow breath, easing her fingers apart, though they still felt stiff from how tightly she had held them.

  She heard footsteps then—soft, hesitant. She didn’t need to look to know it was Tiran. He always moved as though the ground beneath him might crack if he stepped too heavily.

  “Avelyn.” His voice, quieter than water.

  She straightened and met his gaze. There was something familiar in his eyes—an echo of the man he’d been before the miracles took hold. His expression was gentler now, the weight of wariness eased from his features. But beneath that calm, she caught what she’d been looking for. A flicker. Hesitation. The unspoken question.

  “You see it too,” she said.

  Tiran’s jaw tightened, and he glanced away. “I see... something,” he admitted. His words felt worn down, as though he’d carried them too long without speaking. “But what does it mean?”

  Avelyn’s breath came slowly, deliberate. “It means nothing is free.”

  They stood there for a long moment, the silence wrapping between them. Tiran ran a hand over his beard—thinner now than it had been, though she wasn’t sure when it had started to fade. “People won’t want to hear it,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “They’ll call it doubt.”

  “They will.” She met his eyes again. “But someone has to see it. Someone has to remember.”

  Tiran’s shoulders dropped, not in defeat, but in something closer to understanding. “Will you tell Nirion?” he asked after a long pause.

  She hesitated, the answer heavy on her tongue. “Not yet.”

  He didn’t argue. He simply stood beside her, a quiet, unmoving presence. The kind that didn’t demand answers, only offered space to find them.

  The light shifted, the sun slipping lower, turning gold to pale gray. Avelyn let her gaze drift to the streets, alive with motion, with belief.

  “They’re building their lives on it,” Tiran said, his voice so quiet she almost thought she’d imagined it.

  “I know,” she whispered. Her hands tightened, but she didn’t look away. “That’s what makes it dangerous.”

  Tiran turned to her, something soft in his expression—sadness, maybe. He nodded, a small, certain thing. Her breath slowed. Some of the heaviness loosened. She nodded back. And in that fragile quiet, they stayed—two people holding the same truth, waiting for what would come next.