The next morning, the train lurched and the cabin jiggled, the low rumble shaking them both awake.

Solaris inhaled slowly and peeked outside the cornfield-patterned curtains. The sun was illuminating the mountaintops, though they had no idea what time it was. They glanced at the administrative panel; the clock was still hard to read, but the “Service Car” indicator was lit. That meant only one thing—breakfast was ready.

Solaris looked over at Aradia.
“Are you hungry?”

She nodded, and they both hurried down the hall in their sleep attire toward the service car.

When they arrived, they saw the breakfast options: Oat Porridge or Eggs. It was always hard to tell what kind of eggs it would be—sometimes quail, sometimes ostrich. The inconsistency meant you might end up with enough egg for ten people, or a handful of tiny quail eggs that left you hungrier than before.

They both ordered the oats and sat at the same table they had used previously.

As the train climbed out of the valley and into the mountains, they gazed through the panoramic windows at the eastern landscape below. A Ferrohawk flew alongside the train, its metallic eyes locking with Aradia’s. Suddenly, the hawk executed a sharp maneuver and vanished back into the valley.

“Wow,” Solaris exclaimed. “What a beautiful creature. Was that a Ferrohawk?”

Aradia nodded excitedly.

“Ferrohawks are an incredible species,” she said. Unlike other hawks, their feathers were like lightweight alloys. Falconers had found them especially useful for land surveying and observation.

They weren’t sure who had trained that particular hawk, but its precise movements were unmistakably those of a bird with a handler.

Most Ferrohawks had, at some point, been integrated with a human partner. However, there were strict limits on how long a single person could serve as a handler.

Since Ferrohawks lived for centuries, it wasn’t uncommon for multiple generations of the same family to share that responsibility. These partnerships were most common in the plains, where cohorts learned land stewardship and how to integrate with animal life.

Often, people traveled specifically to join conservation core cohorts. These were usually available after completing one’s seventh year of education. Cohorts typically lasted three or four years—sometimes five—depending on seasons and migration patterns.

They were demanding experiences, requiring individuals and teams alike to learn cooperation.

There was at least one more day left on the train, with arrival scheduled for the following morning. Along the way, several additional stops would change the population onboard as the tracks passed through other districts where more passengers were likely to join. The cozy atmosphere would slowly give way to something more utilitarian.

Solaris glanced at the information panel mounted along the wall. It displayed the journey’s duration, motor and train statistics, current speed, the next stop, and the estimated time of arrival. Before long, the train would make a longer stop at the upcoming station. The mountain range was beginning to fade behind them, the terrain flattening into open plains with sweeping grasses.

The oats had been filling, and they were both satisfied. They returned to their cabin, retracting the cornfield-patterned blinds and letting more light spill inside.

For a brief moment, the hawk reappeared outside the window. As the blind lifted, it darted skyward, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

Solaris peered in to the distance, it was too hard to tell where the hawk went the train was barrelling through the landscape at a high rate of speed, most of the landscape looked like a blur.

“What is it?” Aradia asked.

“Hmm… it was that hawk. I wonder if it was the same one.”

The train’s horn blared loudly, signaling an approaching crossing and an imminent stop.

The train lurched again, this time slowing. Items on the table slid forward, and passengers shifted their bodies to adjust to the deceleration.

The trains horn blared again, even though there were far from the engine in the front the trains horn was quite piercing.

The train glided to a stop, the attendants prepared the doors for opening and told the crowds on the platform to let those on the train disembark first.

Solaris and Aradia stepped off onto the platform. This station was smaller than where their journey had begun and sat within an entirely different biome. The sun was rising, but it hung low on the horizon—deep winter meant it would climb only slightly before beginning its descent, ushering in another evening and night.

The station itself had been built in a different era. Its architecture was ornate, filled with flourishes, embellishments, and concentric arches. At first glance it felt overwhelming, but the details harmonized, lending the space an unexpected cohesion. The platform bustled with people, carts, and bags in tow.

Most of the current train riders disembarked to explore the platform.

Aradia walked towards the end of the platform and looked back at the mountain range that they left, serrated and sharp, almost as if they were cutting the horizon and sky.

The wind blew here, but it was warm and dry,k not as cool as the mountain air where they got on.

Passengers waiting to board loaded their carts and bags. Some disappeared into their cabins to settle in for the rest of the journey, while others lingered outside.

In the distance someone yelled Solaris !

Solaris did not hear the call,

louder they beckoned Solaris!! this drew their attention they peered in to the direction of the sound and saw the outline of a person. It was Aurora, beckoning.

Aurora was small in stature, dressed in baggy pants, a pocket-filled vest, and a large floppy hat. Their appearance was deliberately disheveled. They trotted along the platform with carts and gear still in hand, having not yet loaded anything onto the train.

Solaris waved, they remembered Aurora from many decades ago, they had both worked on a project building vertical farming gardens that were designed for temperamental environments. it appeared that Aurora had more components for other gardens, though many things had changed over the decades there were still the fundamentals of what was important to building a vertical garden.

As Aurora drew closer, they had something in their hand, a small box. They walked over to Solaris and exchanged greetings and a hug. Solaris was excited to see Aurora they had fallen out of contact but no malice or harm was assigned to the relationship this was a welcomed reunion.

They exchanged some dialogue briefly and Solaris introduced Aurora to Aradia, they shook hands.

Offering to help get them to their cabin they made their way in to the train car and walked down the hallway, stashing their cart in the storage car and carrying their belonging to the cabin. This cabin was a shared cabin meaning other riders would stay in that space, it was sometimes a nice way to met new people, most travelers were accommodating and kept to themselves.

For the time being there were no other riders in this cabin, this cabin was themed in beach themes with shells, crustaceans and seagulls adoring the decor, art and bed spreads.

This cabin had been more recently decorated most likely during this seasons summer, the tables artwork was not aged. A beautiful beach with a sun high in the sky was carefully etched below a layer of acrylic topping. The view was almost magical. All of them sat around the table and shared a discussion about where they have been and what they have been doing.

Aurora turns the small box over in their hands before speaking.

They describe one of their earliest vertical garden projects—built along a salt-heavy coastline where winds corroded nearly everything. The team had rushed the design, trusting materials that looked resilient but hadn’t been tested long-term. Within two seasons, the structure failed.

“The plants survived longer than the framework,” Aurora says with a quiet laugh. “That should have told us something.”

Solaris leans forward.
“Was it the alloys that failed—or the way they were bonded?”

Aurora nods appreciatively.
“The bonds. Always the bonds. Strong parts don’t matter if they don’t trust each other.”

Aradia asks softly,
“What happened to the land after it collapsed?”

Aurora pauses before answering.
“We learned how to dismantle without scarring. That lesson stayed with me.”

The Train attendants walked the platform and blew their whistle, it was nearly time. The last remaining people on the platform boarded the train and sat in their cabins.

The doors closed, the engine began to roar and the train and it's cabins began to lurch again, across a new landscape, the winds were picking up, the plains were notorious for high winds, and Lunar Bison.

They all decided to stay in the shared cabin and continue sharing stories, Solaris mentioned the FerroHawk they saw in the mountains and shared how it appeared outside the window when they drew the blinds back.

That reminds me Aurora mentioned the Survey Incident that they experience when working with a handler who did not follow protocol with their FerroHawk

Aurora hesitates, then admits they once worked alongside a Ferrohawk handler during a long-range land survey. The hawk disappeared for three days—far beyond protocol.

“We thought we’d lost it,” Aurora says. “Turns out it was mapping something we hadn’t noticed.”

Solaris straightens.
“Subsurface fault lines?”

Aurora nods.
“And dormant water channels.”

Aradia asks quietly,
“Did the handler get in trouble?”

“A warning,” Aurora says. “But the data was invaluable.”

The mood softens as Aurora acknowledges the long silence between them.

“I didn’t leave because of conflict,” they say. “I left because I kept moving—and assumed I could always return.”

Solaris responds gently,
“I think we all make that mistake.”

Aradia asks,
“Do you still build gardens the same way?”

Aurora shakes their head.
“No. Now I design them so they can be rebuilt by people I’ll never meet.”

The train was hurtling over the land, across the plains, the winds were more fierce than any of them previously remember, the reverberation of the wind over the outside of the train made unfamiliar sounds.

The speaker illuminated and then a pause, the was soon to be an announcement.

The announcement just detailed the amenities of the train and assured the riders that the noise of the wind was to be expected, people should enjoy their ride. It wouldn't be until the evening that the train would be stopping again. The sun crept up higher in the horizon.

the panel illuminated and it was soon to be lunch.

Nobody in the group was hungry but they were feeling that after a time of catching up it was time to withdraw to their own cabins and quarters.

Aurora agreed and said I'd love to see your artwork, can I walk you to your cabin?

They both nodded and agreed. Aurora grabbed their box they had carried and brought it with them.

The train corridor hallways were long, sometimes trains stretched as many as 115 cars in length or longer, people could communicate with other cabins and send messages on the intercom system.

They walked up the train to the corn decorated cabin, and opened the door, Aurora always appreciated art like Solaris and Aradia, this is so clever I love it they said.

They looked at the table and saw the corn mascot, worn and threadbare. Wow I haven't had that popcorn in ages!

Aurora drew the door closed, and muted the intercom system. They placed the box on the table and looked at the others in the eyes.

inside are seed matrices from extinct or near-extinct regional cultivars—encoded, adaptable, and meant to be shared.

“I didn’t know who I’d give these to,” Aurora admits. “But seeing you both here felt… correct.”

Solaris doesn’t open the box right away.
“Do they need a specific climate?”

“They need patience,” Aurora replies.

Aradia asks the last question, almost reverently:
“And trust?”

Aurora smiles.
“Especially that.”

Aurora then un-muted the intercom and slid open the door and retired to their cabin.

Everyone ate dinner that night and exchanged conversations in the dining room. The mood had shifted; the train’s atmosphere was becoming more utilitarian. Most of the passengers were likely headed to the festival, their excitement palpable as they chatted with one another.

The sun dipped down under the horizon, the plains were nearly empty, but full of grass, waving in the wind.

The train stopped at other stations along the way, more people joined. Some stops were in the dead of night.

That next morning the sun started to peek over the horizon, rising and peeking through the curtains in all the cabins that were on the east side of the train.

An announcement came over the loudspeaker: the train was nearing its final destination. Riders would disembark soon, and anyone needing assistance with their carts or transfers to other lines should speak to an attendant.

The train barreled through the plains, people began to prepare for their departure, the excitement was palpable, most of these riders helped facilitate the festival.

The service car panel illuminated, announcing that breakfast was ready. Today's meal was burritos—large, football-sized burritos in various flavor combinations. Most people ordered extra to carry with them for lunch later on.

As the group settled in after breakfast, the train’s horn blared, louder than usual. The terrain had changed. They were entering the highlands. Deciduous trees, stripped of their leaves, lined the horizon, and the mountains in the distance were tinged in grey, no longer lush and green. The sight felt oddly comforting.

This station was not decorated like the others, it was utilitarian in feel and decor. A peptobismol pink decorated the columns and a sea foam green the floor, these colors were picked because they were thought to be calming.. This station had been built in a time when the world was always planning that the 'worst' was yet to come, and the design considerations of paint were top priority for leadership at the time.

The train gracefully slowed to a stop, but this was not a station with carts to load. Instead, caravans of carts were being prepared to transport festival supplies.

Some people on the station held signs with names, others waited likely in a location they shared with the people the would be meeting.

Solaris and Aradia were looking for a person with a cart lead by donkeys.

Peering out the window, they saw far off in the distance a sign that read 'Festival Staff', I bet we should head over there Aradia mentioned. Yes, lets' get our belongings packed up.

Solaris made sure to tuck the box from Aurora carefully in their backpack.

attendants hurry to open the doors, urging passengers to exit in an orderly fashion. There's a sense of organized chaos—people rush to unload carts, bags, and equipment, yet the movement feels calculated.

Solaris and Aradia step off the train, momentarily dazed by the sensory overload, the sun was nearing the top of the sky for the day, it was only a few more days until the longest night, they were hoping to make it to their tent and get re-situated before nightfall.

Everyone waited in the equipment line to get their carts and head to their transportation.

Solaris Aradia and Aurora all met at the transportation, their transportation guide was Named Amaranth, a tall thin and well structured person had a cart train with a heard of donkeys to pull the equipment, it was only a few miles from the station to the festival staging grounds, they attached their carts and packed their items. The sun was starting to dip, they would arrive just ask dusk was setting in.

A few other members joined, headed the same direction attaching their carts and stowing their items.

Amaranth pulled out a cone shaped device and spoke in to it, it was much louder on the other side, Amaranth instructed the riders to take a seat inside the wagon and in just a few hours they would be arriving.

The journey was unremarkable, as they pulled in the festival grounds were already abuzz with Tents, stands, carts and a variety of kinds of people and creatures all working seemingly in tandem harmonizing the chaos of constructing the event grounds.

As Amaranth guided the donkey convoy train around the grounds different people detached and started working on their tent, Aurora said goodbye to their friends, their tent was on the other side of the event grounds, where the plant and gardening section were, in the back a lightly wooded area was visible.

Looking in the treeline, Solaris saw the FerroHawk waiting in the tree. The FerroHawk made eye contact and released a shrill shriek, Solaris, felt chilled by the shriek. The bird did not move, it did not dart off. It was observing intently, and specifically Solaris.

Nobody else in the group saw or drew their attention that way but to Solaris it was exceptionally clear.

Amaranth cracked their whip and the donkeys pulled forward, each cart in tow. The convoy became shorter and shorter until just two carts were left one for Solaris and one for Aradia they pulled to a grassy knoll area with a tent partially erected, a few other individuals were already hard at work.

The two disconnected their carts and rolled them toward the storage area. They joined in helping lift the center pole, ensuring the tent’s canvas was taut and ready to be transformed into a comfortable living space. Inside, the tent had a wooden floor and walls separated by canvas. While the walls didn’t offer much privacy, there was something comforting about the shared space. Sometimes, artists decorated the walls with murals, though these walls remained plain.

The night was drawing closer, the sun was disappearing under the horizon the skies were turning to a deep shade of jade, then purple and eventually a deep ruby red. A few long thin wispy clouds decorated the sky.

On each night there was always a group meal being cooked, the section of duty to cook and work in the kitchen were assigned by an area coordinator, they managed schedules and did the best they could to accommodate. The area coordinator for their tent was Nimbus a small and energetic gnome, clipboard in hand, coffee attached at the waste Nimbus turned the corner and said directly

"Hello, I'm Nimbus your area coordinator, you can reach me on the radio on channel 4, you each have kitchen duty in two days."

Nimbus handed each member a pamphlet with schedules, resources and other information. It contained a map and scheduled alone with call signs.

Ok, the group nodded.

"need anything? " Nimbus inquired

"Nope, we're headed to dinner"

"Enjoy, it's Lamb".

Nimbus walked to the other tent, you could still hear him communicating with the other staff.

The solar festival always celebrated the circle of life, with each animal being processed and honored. .

Solaris and Aradia made their way to the dining tent, bustling with sounds, and teeming with delicious odors of drinks, snacks the delicious meal that was being prepared.

The inside of the tent had long tables with benches on either side of the tables, rows and rows of tables as far as the eye could see, the tent was tall, it was wide it was beaming with life and excitement.

They took their seats across from each other.

More people continued to filter in and take their seats, the dining tent could accommodate thousands, but tonight just a few hundred the space felt cozy and welcoming.

At the end of the tent was a stage, on the stage a few chairs were set up for a panel, most nights there were discussions while people ate, sometimes it was administrative sometimes it was a panel.

A leader of the festival, adorned in a black and purple cape stood on the stage near the microphone.

"Welcome, I'm Periwinkle it's good that your journeys have allowed you to come here and celebrate with us, this is the 432nd year we've held this celebration, it's an honor that you're here tonight..

Your commitment to this community this event and this honor is part of something larger than you. "

Periwinkle stood tall on the stage, the glow of the lanterns illuminating the contours of their face, their cape gently swaying in the breeze. Their voice, calm and warm, filled the large dining tent.

"This is a celebration of light and energy," they continued, their tone rising slightly with excitement. "

In the city of Copper Ore, we host this event to honor the sun—our greatest source of power. Here, we showcase solar art installations, light sculptures, and performance art that rely entirely on solar-powered lighting. It is a time for our community to come together and celebrate the sun's life-giving force."

"Every single one of you is a part of this. Whether you’ve contributed a lantern, a sculpture, or a performance powered by the sun, your participation is what makes this festival truly shine. Each of you brings light in your own way. And that light, whether it flickers in a small lantern or radiates from a grand sculpture, connects us all."

Solaris noticed something on Periwinkle wrist, a handler wrap, this was specifically for people who handled FerroHawk. Solaris had a moment of un-ease but dismissed it and decided to not mention it to any one else.

Periwinkle's smile widened, their pride in the festival clear. "This is just the beginning, my friends. You’ll see many more solar-powered installations, interactive performances, and even a few surprises along the way. This is a time for us all to come together and celebrate not just the sun, but the power we have as a community."

They raised a glass high, the shimmering lantern light catching the edges of their cape.

"So, enjoy tonight, and tomorrow, we begin the festival in full force. Welcome to the Solar Festival, and may the sun shine brightly on you all."

As Periwinkle stepped down from the stage, the dining tent slowly filled with conversation again. Plates were passed hand to hand, the rich scent of lamb and herbs mingling with warm bread and roasted vegetables. Lantern light glinted off metal cups and solar filaments woven into the tent’s framework.

Aradia sat quietly across from Solaris, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her hands bore the familiar marks of her trade—small scars, faint burns, calluses earned over years of shaping metal. She turned her cup slowly, listening more than speaking, the hum of voices washing around her.

Aradia traveled with a solar-powered forge cart, a hybrid of old craft and new technology. Its panels unfolded like wings when she set camp, feeding captured sunlight into a compact forge that burned clean and hot. Where others programmed or assembled, Aradia hammered, quenched, and tempered—methods older than the cities themselves.

Her work kept the technologies alive in ways few people talked about. She repaired cracked solar mounts, reforged worn hinges on wind vanes, reshaped broken connectors when replacement parts weren’t available. When something failed far from a city, it was often Aradia who made it usable again. She didn’t just fix things—she translated the future through the language of the past.

People respected her deeply, but she remained a little apart.

She was often invited to festivals like this one, yet never fully belonged to any single place. To the younger engineers and artists, she felt like a relic—someone who insisted on doing things the hard way. To the elders, she was proof that the old skills still mattered.

Aradia occupied the quiet space between admiration and distance.

As the meal continued, someone at the table nearby leaned over.

“Aradia,” they said, nodding toward the festival grounds beyond the tent, “heard you’ll be setting up the forge tomorrow.”

Aradia inclined her head. “Yes.”

Solaris watched her for a moment, noticing how Aradia’s gaze drifted toward the open tent flap, toward where her cart would soon stand among lanterns and sculptures. The festival celebrated light and energy in bold, dazzling ways—but Aradia carried it in quieter forms: in heat, in metal, in things meant to last.

She lifted her cup then, just slightly, as if acknowledging the words Periwinkle had spoken.

A celebration of light, yes—but also of those who kept that light from fading.

Light for the Longest Night

The sun crept up behind low hills and scaffolded frames, its light catching on copper poles and stretched canvas. Tents filled the grounds in careful clusters, their lines overlapping and weaving into one another a temporary city breathing itself awake.

The air was cool and metallic, carrying the scent of oiled hinges, canvas warmed by early light, and solar cells beginning to charge.

People were already at work.

Especially Aradia.

The festival grounds were divided into tent districts rather than permanent structures. Pathways wound between them, marked by solar-thread lights embedded in the soil—dark now, but waiting. Above, mirrors hung from cables and branches, turning slowly in the breeze, redirecting sunlight toward shaded work-spaces.

Copper reflectors lined some of the paths, their surfaces worn smooth by years of polishing.

Aradia’s cart sat firmly in Forge and Fabrication Row, in a place where community members could gather, learn how the cart worked, ask questions, and take part. It was not hidden away, but it was not central either—close enough to be accessible, far enough to give the work room to breathe.

where tools hummed, glowed, and clicked rather than beeped. Heat shimmered low over the earth.

The steady ring of metal carried through the morning air.

Nearby, the Lantern Quarter was already alive with quiet motion. Thousands of handcrafted lanterns rested on racks and lines, their surfaces catching the strengthening sun as they charged. Some were simple and practical; others intricate—shaped like animals, constellations, or abstract forms that made sense only to their makers.

Beyond that, the Art & Light Fields stretched wide. Large-scale sculptures stood dormant, their frames absorbing sunlight that would be released after dark. Some would glow softly. Others would pulse, rotate, or cast moving shadows across the ground.

Aradia began unfolding her cart.

She cranked the gears, and panels swung out and locked into place, copper joints clicking with satisfying precision. She adjusted their angles carefully, watching how the light fell, waiting. Heat came slowly—no switches, no sudden ignition. Just alignment, timing, and patience.

Once everything was set, the forge began to glow.

Aradia worked steadily, repairing broken lantern frames brought to her by runners and artists. She reinforced joints on sculptures that would later be handled by crowds. When a younger builder hovered nearby, uncertain, she handed them a piece of metal and showed them how to listen—how to feel the vibration change when fatigue set in, how to know when to stop before something failed.

At one point, a young person approached, holding a shattered lantern.

“Can this be fixed?” they asked.

Aradia turned the lantern over in her hands, inspecting it carefully. After a moment, she nodded.

“Let’s do it together,” she said.

She turned back toward the forge, selecting tools as the young person stepped closer, watching intently.

Meanwhile, Solaris spent the morning moving between tasks—stringing reflectors, aligning mirrors, carrying components where they were needed. The work was lighter than Aradia’s, but no less careful. Each mirror had to be placed just right. Each thread light needed to be seated firmly in the soil. The grasses were mostly dormant, the soil dry on top but moist just a few inches down, the wind breezing gently, cool and crisp..

Solaris was intent in their work, thinking of the festival, the people they saw, the gifts they received and the connections the would make. They were deep in though, focused on installing the thread lights. Not much could draw their attention.

a shadow passed overhead.

Solaris looked up instinctively. For a brief moment, something dark crossed the sun, and then it was gone.

Later, from the direction of the treeline, came a faint metallic cry—sharp, distant, and gone as quickly as it had appeared.

The FerroHawk.

No one else seemed to notice. Solaris returned to their work, but the sound stayed with them. Echoing in their ears, reverberating in their skin. The shrill cry of the hawk was present in Solaris mind, body and spirit.

To focus, Solaris thought about how much effort went into creating light. How many hands, how much care, how many small decisions stacked on top of one another. This festival was not about banishing the darkness. It was about meeting it prepared.

Still, Solaris couldn’t shake the feeling that the darkness arriving this year felt… heavier.

As if it were paying attention.

As the sun lowered and the air cooled, the first lanterns flickered to life—not fully bright, just enough. Small points of light spread across the grounds.

Among them, Solaris noticed one behaving strangely. It shone brighter than it should have, its rhythm slightly off, as if it were listening to something no one else could hear.

Solaris watched it for a long moment.

The light was ready.

And night was coming.

Light in the Darkness

On the morning of the first day of the festival, the day began without noise.

No horns. No music. No bells.
Just the quiet patter of feet.

The citizens and community members of Copper Ore woke to a practiced stillness. They emerged from their tents slowly, deliberately. If anyone spoke at all, it was only in whispers, as though the morning itself required care.

Everyone made their way to the center of the grounds

At the center of the grounds, a wide circle of bare earth had been cleared overnight. This was the Grounding Ring, a ritual space used only once each year. Around its edge stood evenly spaced copper posts, driven deep into the soil. Between them, thin braided lines of metal and fiber rested slack, waiting.

This ritual did not belong to performers or leaders.

It belonged to everyone.

One by one, community members stepped into the ring and placed their contribution at its center. A lantern casing. A mirror tile. A joint reinforced by hand. Each object had already captured sunlight in some form. The act was not to activate them, but to acknowledge them—to remember that light did not appear on its own.

Aradia arrived carrying nothing ornamental.

In her hands was a simple forged bracket, darkened from use. It had once held a solar array steady through a season of heavy wind. She placed it carefully among the other offerings, her fingers lingering just long enough to feel its temperature, cooler than the air surrounding it, the bracket felt heavy and durable..

Aradia understood this ritual better than most.

To her, light was not something to summon or celebrate loudly. It was something you earned through attention. Something maintained. Something repaired when it failed. The longest night was not an enemy—it was a test of whether what you had built would hold.

She stepped back to the edge of the ring, her place as always just outside the center, watching as others followed.

Then the wind shifted.

A shadow crossed the circle, sharp and unmistakable.

The FerroHawk landed atop one of the copper posts with a ringing clang that cut through the quiet. Its body caught the light strangely, feathers edged in metal gleaming dully. It did not move. It did not flee.

It watched.

A few people noticed. Most did not. No one spoke.

Solaris felt it immediately.

Their attention pulled toward the hawk as if by gravity.

The bird’s eyes tracked the ring, the offerings, the people. When it let out a cry, it was not loud—but it resonated through the metal lines, setting them humming faintly underfoot.

Solaris felt the vibration travel through the ground, through their boots, up their legs.

This was not a bad omen.

But it was not nothing.

The hawk tilted its head, fixed on Solaris for just a moment longer than coincidence allowed. Then, with a heavy beat of wings, it lifted off and disappeared toward the treeline.

Only after it was gone did the circle exhale.

The braided lines were drawn taut. Connections were made. Not power—continuity. The ritual was complete.

The festival would begin soon.

The light had been acknowledged.

The darkness had been informed.

The sun continued to rise, cresting over the horizon, carrying in the full day. A myriad of other activities were occurring, celebrations, learning, educational workshops the city abuzz with guests and community..

Evening settled slowly over Copper Ore, as if the land itself were taking a careful breath.

Lanterns were lifted from racks and carried through the grounds. People adorned themselves with reflective cloth, polished metal charms, solar-thread crowns, and layered light pieces that had been charging all day. Some lights were worn close to the body. Others hovered, rolled, or were carried aloft on poles. Music began in fragments—drums warming, strings being tuned, breath moving through reed instruments until rhythm found rhythm.

Solaris stood near the edge of the crowd, lantern in hand.

Since the morning, they had not been able to shake the feeling left behind by the Ferro Hawk. It wasn’t fear, exactly. It was the awareness of having been seen, of having been singled out by something that did not explain itself. Solaris found themselves scanning the treeline, the rooftops of tents, the high scaffold poles—half-expecting to glimpse metal-edged wings again.

Nothing appeared.

Still, the sense lingered.

Nearby, Aradia moved with quiet confidence, making final checks along Forge and Fabrication Row. She adjusted a hinge here, tightened a bracket there, her movements steady and unhurried. The coming night did not seem to weigh on her. She had prepared for it the way she prepared for everything—by making sure the work was sound.

Solaris watched her for a moment.

Aradia did not look up at the sky. She did not search the shadows. She trusted what had been built, what had been tested by hand and heat and time. To her, the darkness was simply another condition to account for.

Solaris envied that certainty.

As the music gathered strength, people began drifting toward the central thoroughfare. Lantern light spread outward, reflecting off copper and glass, turning the paths into slow-moving rivers of gold and amber. Laughter rose. Feet found rhythm. The festival shifted from preparation to motion.

At the head of the path, a raised platform had been set. Periwinkle stepped onto it, their black-and-purple cape catching the lantern light, its edges shimmering softly. The music faded to a low hum.

Periwinkle raised one hand, towards the sky, towards the darkness and evening settling from above. This wrist did not have the handler wrap.

“Tonight,” they said, their voice carrying easily through the crowd, “we walk together into the longest night.”

The lanterns were lifted higher.

“We do not chase the darkness away,” Periwinkle continued. “We do not deny it. We meet it with what we have made. With what we have carried. With what we are willing to share.”

A murmur of agreement moved through the gathering.

“Each light you hold was shaped by your hands, your time, your care. Alone, it is small. Together—” Periwinkle gestured outward, toward the sea of lanterns—“it becomes something that lasts.”

Music rose again, this time stronger. Drums set the pace. Bells chimed softly. The procession began to move.

Solaris stepped forward with the others.

As they walked, the lantern in their hands pulsed gently, its glow steady and warm. Yet Solaris felt hyper-aware of every flicker, every shadow beyond the light’s reach. The crowd closed around them, comforting and overwhelming all at once.

They glanced toward Aradia.

She walked a few paces ahead, lantern swinging easily at her side. Her gaze stayed forward, her posture relaxed. She was present, but not searching.

Solaris realized then that the difference between them was not belief.

It was trust.

Trust that the light they had built was enough.

The procession wound through the grounds, music and movement weaving together. Above, unseen by most, something shifted in the high air currents. Metal caught starlight briefly, then vanished.

Solaris felt it—not as a sound, not as a sight, but as a pressure. An attention.

They tightened their grip on the lantern.

The parade continued.

The night deepened.

And somewhere beyond the reach of the light, something was watching how the light moved.