The Sun Will Rise

Chapter Five

"When the sky forgets the stars,

And fire drowns the trees,

Listen for the sleeping path,

Beneath the silent seas.

When the dust forgets its name,

And light begins to lie,

Walk where even shadows fade,

And never say goodbye."

The lullaby whispered through his bones before the pain could. Before the ropes burned his skin, before the chants faded, before the first scream hit the sky. It came from memory, not mercy.

He was small again.

The room was dim, lit by a half-working bulb that clicked every few seconds and cast the walls in a stuttering glow. Dust danced in the stale air like ash caught in slow motion. Old wires dangled from the ceiling like dried vines. The shelves were cluttered but not chaotic—his grandmother liked it that way. Each item had a place: jars of salvaged nails, half-dead devices she couldn't bear to throw out, and the battered lamp that transmitted the filtered sunlight into faint, clean warmth.

And there, in the corner, was the bed. Scratchy fabric. One leg shorter than the others. A threadbare blanket clung to one end.

Ádin lay on her thighs, grinning with chipped teeth and wild curls, the left side of his lip still healing from a scrape two days old. He looked up at her with eyes full of everything the world hadn't taken yet.

"Why does it say walk where shadows fade?" he asked between giggles. "Shadows don't fade. They stretch. Like me!" He stretched both arms to the sides dramatically and grinned, missing a tooth.

Grandma chuckled, patting his head with those rough fingers of hers, fingers worn from years of hiding and healing. "It means something," she said softly.

"But what?"

"You'll know someday."

Ádin pouted, scrunching his nose. "I hate when you say that."

"Say what?"

"When I ask something and you just smile. Like this." He mimicked her exaggeratedly, tilting his head and giving her his best smug grin.

She laughed, her voice hoarse but rich. "You're impossible."

He crossed his arms. "It's not fair. You should just tell me."

"I won't live forever, Á," she said, ruffling his hair.

Silence followed. Long, still silence. He stared at her, as if trying to understand something larger than he could hold.

"Will they scorch you?" he asked quietly.

She smiled. Not the smug kind. The other kind. The kind that hid things.

"Not even if I was old as fart," she said. "They wouldn't catch me."

He burst into laughter and she joined him, and the room was filled with the kind of joy only found in denial.

The laughter was gone now. Torn away by the sound of rope tightening and flesh struggling.

A single tear slid from Ádin's blindfolded eyes—not for the pain in his arms, nor for the bruises on his ribs, but for that room, that voice, that moment when he thought the world might still make sense.

Why now?

Why would I remember that now?

He didn't know.

The pole was iron. Or steel. Something cold and ancient. His wrists were bound behind him, rough rope cutting into skin already raw. His shirt was in tatters. One of his eyes stung from the blood dripping from a gash above his brow. They had blindfolded him, laughed while they did it. He had heard them chant. Felt them spit.

Then someone tried to hold his fingers. Another tugged his arm flat against the pole. Someone else whispered: "Hold still, heretic. The flame must know you."

He thrashed, but he was weak now.

This is it, he thought. All the hunger. All the fear. All the nights under moonlight. For this?

One hand pressed against his forehead, preparing to gouge out his eye. The other gripped his arm, steadying it for the nail.

But then—

"THE SUN! IT'S COMING!"

Chaos.

Screams.

The sound of stalls being yanked down. Feet slapping stone. A child crying. Wood breaking. Bells clanging. Metal clattering.

They left him.

Just like that.

Gone.

One voice, and they scattered like roaches.

Ádin screamed. "Help! Please—untie me!" But there was no help. Just the noise of people running, scrambling to shelter.

Behind him, somewhere lower on another pole, someone was humming. Quiet. Off-key. A prayer, maybe. One of the condemned, his voice brittle with age.

Others sobbed.

One man laughed.

The air was changing—growing hotter, heavier. He could feel it even without the sun directly on him.

He twisted his hands, bit down on his lip as the rope scraped open his skin. "Fletcher," he whispered. "Fletcher, I'm sorry."

A man's voice came from nearby. "It's useless to struggle. The flames will make us pure."

Ádin snarled. "Shut up."

"The light is coming. It cleanses. It burns away the sin. I can hear it. I can feel it—"

"SHUT UP!"

He pulled harder, swinging his body against the pole. He swayed side to side, screaming, straining, kicking at the pole's base.

A crack.

Then a louder one.

One of the ropes snapped.

He fell. Hard.

Pain burst through his shoulder, but his hands were free. The blindfold was ripped off.

And he saw them.

The condemned.

Dozens, still hanging.

Some alive. Some silent. Some swaying. One with no face left.

He looked east.

The sun was rising.

A globe of fire pushing over the crumbling horizon, huge and furious. The ground below it shimmered like water. The mirage of death.

He ran.

Barefoot.

Every step was agony.

But the sun was faster.

He looked back once.

The first ray hit the pole farthest from him.

The man tied to it screamed once. Just once. His skin went black. Then peeled. His mouth melted mid-prayer.

Ádin ran harder.

His breath came in gasps. The wind around him was fire. His vision blurred.

Don't look back. Don't look back. Don't die. Not now. Not like this.

He spotted a building—small, squat, stone. Broken window.

He threw himself toward it, nearly collapsed at the threshold.

The sun chased him to the door.

He dived inside, rolled behind a heavy cabinet, and curled into himself.

He was shaking. Every part of him screamed.

The sunlight crawled over the threshold, then stopped. His skin was slick with sweat, chest heaving.

He hugged his knees and whispered between gasps:

"I made it. I made it. I made it."

But he hadn't.

Because now came the harder part.

Surviving the day.