Midday in Solvaris burns differently.
It's not just the heat. The air itself feels heavy, as though the sun presses its full weight down upon the streets. Every breath tastes of dust, smoke, and something acrid—like metal ground between teeth.
And yet, the plaza is full.
Thousands stand shoulder-to-shoulder, spilling into every alley and balcony that overlooks the execution platform. Merchants have abandoned their stalls; guards in gilded armor stand in disciplined lines; even the noble carriages have rolled in, their silk-draped passengers watching from shaded comfort. The crowd murmurs, but no one dares to speak above a whisper.
I stand near the rear, back pressed to the shadow of a leaning wall, where the shade is thin but the view is good. A boy in rags draws less attention here.
At the center of the plaza, the scaffold waits thick iron pillars sunk into stone, the execution block blackened from use.
The condemned kneel in a line. Men, women, even one old enough to be my grandfather. Shackles bite into their wrists, chains clinking when they move. Their faces are drawn, pale with thirst and fear.
I don't know their crimes. It doesn't matter.
In Solvaris, the guilty die quickly. The powerless die for an audience.
Remember this, Lucifer. You don't have to be guilty to burn.
The thought slips through my mind as easily as breath. Not a prophecy. Just fact.
A hush falls. The temperature spikes not from the sun, but from mana. It rolls across the plaza like an invisible tide, so hot it prickles the skin. Even the air wavers.
From the far archway, he steps through.
Valtheris Duskbane. The Sun's Executioner.
I've never seen him before, but I've heard the name whispered enough to know it. Tall, broad-shouldered, every inch of him radiating a suffocating authority. His armor is blackened steel, chased with veins of molten gold that pulse faintly, as if a sun beats beneath his skin. His eyes are molten amber cold in focus, yet carrying the heat of a forge about to consume the world.
The air bends around him. Light itself seems to favor him, pooling in golden halos on the ground where he steps. The platform creaks beneath his boots.
A single greatsword rests across his back an obsidian blade wider than my chest, etched with runes that glimmer like starlight caught in pitch. They say it once cut through a mountain in a single stroke. Looking at him now, I don't doubt it.
The crowd bows their heads as one. Even the nobles in their carriages lower their gazes. Not out of respect. Out of survival.
I keep my eyes on him.
Valtheris stops before the condemned. He speaks, voice deep and even, carrying without shouting.
"The sun sees all. The sun burns all. By decree of His Radiance, Emperor Kaelis of Solvaris, these enemies of the Empire are sentenced to final ash."
No trial. No reading of crimes. Only the sentence.
The man at the far left shakes, whispering prayers to whatever god he thinks might listen.
Valtheris draws his greatsword.
The metal hums as it leaves the sheath. Or maybe it's the air itself crying out. Heat blooms so sharply that the crowd stirs, fanning themselves, but no one leaves.
I watch the man's lips tremble. His eyes dart to the crowd, searching for mercy. There's none to be found.
The blade falls.
It's not steel that kills him—it's the light.
For an instant, the sword flares like the heart of the sun, and where it passes, flesh, bone, and chain are erased in a hiss of white-gold vapor. Not blood. Not even ash. Only a faint smear of shadow on the platform where a man once knelt.
The crowd exhales as one.
I don't. My chest is tight, but not from fear.
From fascination.
The next one tries to speak, but Valtheris moves without pause. A step, a swing, a sunflare. Gone.
Three. Four. Five. Each life ended in the space between heartbeats. The heat rises until the stones beneath the platform glow faintly red. The smell of scorched iron fills my lungs.
The old man in the chain is last. He doesn't beg. Doesn't cry. Only lifts his chin, as if defying the sun itself.
Valtheris pauses, studying him for a fraction of a second longer than the others. Then he ends him all the same.
The platform is empty. The heat begins to fade, though the air is still thick with the echo of power.
"Justice is the light of the Empire," Valtheris says, cleaning his blade with a single sweep that leaves no mark. "May it never dim."
He turns and leaves the way he came. The guards close in, herding the crowd back toward the streets. The nobles depart first; the rest follow in eddies, speaking in low voices, repeating his words as though they mean anything.
I stay until the platform is empty.
The stones still hold the heat. I press a palm to the wall beside me. It's warm. Not just from the sun—from him.
I know exactly what I've seen today.
This is what it means to be powerless.
When I was younger, I thought death was the worst thing that could happen to you. I was wrong.
Death is an ending. Powerlessness is the slow, choking life that comes before.
I don't know how long I stood there before I realized I'm smiling. Not out of joy. Out of madness.
Because for the first time in a long time, I understand.
There are only two kinds of people in this world those who hold the sun, and those who burn under it.
I will not burn.
That vow doesn't roar in my chest. It's quiet. Cold. A simple truth taking root, deeper than hunger or fear.
No matter how far I have to climb. No matter what I have to become.
The next time I stand in a plaza like this, I won't be watching.
I'll be the one holding the sun.
⸻
End of Chapter 1