The Seventh Day Without A Sun
It had been seven days.
And the sun had not risen.
Not a storm.
Not an eclipse.
Just a pale grey sky, stuck in a permanent dawn that never became day.
The world was holding its breath.
Waiting for a god who had stopped speaking.
Crops began to fail.
The oceans moved slower.
Mirrors stopped showing clear reflections.
Some said time itself had stuttered.
Others claimed the light was being hoarded by someone too broken to share it.
In the Citadel of Ashen Steel, where the gods once gathered,
only one throne remained occupied.
Pride sat there, hunched forward,
as if the weight of his own title had become too heavy to wear.
He no longer gave speeches.
He no longer summoned Reflected.
He simply watched the horizon—
where the sun should have risen seven mornings ago.
“They will forget you soon,” said a voice.
It wasn’t mocking.
It was quiet. Inevitable.
Pride didn’t look to see who spoke.
He knew the voice.
It came from within.
“What are you without them?”
“What are you when they no longer reflect you?”
That night, no lamps were lit in the cities.
People began to sleep during the day and dream during the night—
but their dreams were filled with cracked glass,
flickering light,
and a voice that asked too much and gave too little.
A child in a forgotten village asked her grandmother:
“Why is the sky broken?”
And the old woman, with nothing left to offer, simply whispered:
“Because the god behind it…
is breaking too.”
Pride, alone on his throne, whispered into the endless dusk:
“I still exist.”
But the silence answered back:
“So do shadows.”
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