The bells of Solaria rang at dawn.
Not in warning.
Not in alarm.
But in reverence.
Their sound rolled through the white-stone streets like a living hymn, deep and resonant, echoing across the capital's spires and sanctuaries. Golden light spilled over marble roads, catching on gilded edges and stained-glass windows that told stories of saints, miracles, and divine judgment. The city awoke not with noise, but with prayer.
Incense drifted through the air, warm and sweet, mixing with the scent of fresh bread and polished stone. Priests in white-and-gold robes moved in quiet lines, staffs tapping gently against the ground. Novices followed them, heads bowed, lips moving in memorized verses.
"—may the Goddess watch over our steps—"
"—don't forget to attend the noon blessing—"
"—I heard the what happened with the saintess—"
Soft voices layered over one another, reverent, careful. No one shouted. No one rushed.
Faith shaped everything here.
