The city slows…
only once a year.
On that day, Dunskar gathers.
The central district, especially the plaza before the Temple of Solus, fills with people long before the sun reaches its peak. Shops close. Trade halts. Even the ever-restless streets seem to hold their breath.
Only what is essential continues.
Everything else… watches.
The children arrive in red.
Not the dull red of dust or brick—but a deep, deliberate crimson. Robes that mark them as something in between—no longer simply children, not yet something else.
They stand in lines.
Too orderly.
Too quiet.
At the center stands the High Priest.
Clad in layered red, adorned with gold that catches even the faintest light. His presence alone creates distance. Around him, attendants in similar robes—each marked differently, some heavy with ornament, others almost bare.
Hierarchy, even here.
His face remains unseen beneath a tall headdress and shadowed hood.
In his hands—
a crystal.
The Soul of Solus.
It is smaller than I expected.
Transparent. Unassuming.
And yet… no one dares to look away.
One by one, the children step forward.
They do not speak.
They do not hesitate.
Each places their hand upon the crystal.
And then—
it answers.
Light fractures within it, unfolding into patterns that shift too quickly to follow. Colors emerge—sharp, fluid, alive in ways I cannot describe.
No two are the same.
The High Priest leans in, studying. Not with surprise, nor curiosity—
but recognition.
He whispers.
Not to the child.
But to a royal official standing just beside him.
The announcement comes immediately.
A voice amplified by an artifact—clear, absolute, impossible to ignore.
A role.
A path.
A place within Dunskar.
The reaction is… rehearsed.
Those deemed suitable are met with a single, unified motion—
Hands raised to the right.
No cheer. No noise.
Just acknowledgment.
Acceptance.
There are no “failures.”
Only those who are chosen—
and those who are not.
When the crystal yields nothing…
it darkens.
Not violently. Not dramatically.
It simply… dims.
Black.
And the crowd turns away.
Not slowly.
Not hesitantly.
But all at once.
As if responding to a signal no one spoke.
They do not watch the child leave.
They do not listen when the child cries.
I saw one fall to their knees.
Begging.
Grasping at a parent’s sleeve.
The parent did not look down.
Did not stop.
Walked away—
as one would pass something already discarded.
I found myself unable to move.
There were other moments.
Two children, chosen for the temple.
The reaction was different.
Immediate.
Absolute.
The crowd knelt.
Every single person—
except the parents.
Hands placed over the heart.
Heads lowered.
Silence deeper than before.
The children were led forward.
They did not resist.
They did not cry.
I do not know if they understood.
Their parents remained standing.
Watching.
Until the temple doors closed.
They will not return.
Throughout it all, the wind never ceased.
It moved constantly through the plaza—pulling at robes, whispering across stone.
And yet…
it carried no sand.
Not a single grain.
It felt… controlled.
Contained.
As though even the wind had been instructed
how to behave.
There were no prayers.
No chants.
The priests never spoke beyond what was necessary.
The ritual unfolded with precision.
Without question.
And the people—
they accepted it.
Not blindly.
But completely.
When it ended, the city resumed.
Children returned to their families, some smiling, relieved—already stepping into the roles given to them. Merchants reopened. Conversations shifted. Opportunities were discussed.
It became… a beginning.
But I could not forget what I had seen.
A system so seamless
that no one thought to question it.
A truth so complete
that doubt had no place to exist.
I have spent months in Dunskar, trying to understand its strength.
Today, I think I understand something else.
It is not built on power.
Nor on wealth.
It is built on belief.
And belief—
when shared by an entire city—
is far more unyielding
than any law.
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