Faith was theatre.And he was a master of performance.
Beneath the crimson hood of the First Ember, as he stood atop the altar, Solum smiled—though none could see it. Not from this distance, not through the smoke. That was the beauty of it. They saw what they wanted: a saviour, a symbol, a man unafraid of death.
Not a puppeteer with ash-stained fingers and a history soaked in lies.
The crowd below knelt in rows across the cracked stone plaza of the Shaded, faces tilted toward the pyre in hungry devotion. They had come with soot on their skin and hope in their hands, desperate for cleansing. They'd watched their children grow Hollowed, watched the light become currency they couldn't afford. And now—tonight—he would give them what they craved.
A miracle.
It wasn't enough to die. People did that every day in Nyxara. The poor vanished in the dark while the rich glowed in their towers of artificial sun, preserved and praised. No, Solum would not disappear quietly. He would burn. Loudly. Purposefully. Gloriously.
Let them remember his name when the next Turning came.
Behind him, High-priest Irin finished preparing the sacred oil, pouring it in slow, precise arcs across the wooden structure. The priest's hands trembled with the weight of ceremony, but Solum remained still. Calm. In control.
The fire was meant to lift his soul to Solara. That was the story. That was the lie he'd whispered into Irin's sleep, over months of manipulation and careful miracles. His real plan had never required a goddess.
Only the flame.
Only their faith.
Solum looked up. The sky stretched wide and black above him—thirty days deep into shadow. No stars. No sun. No hope, except for the flickering light at the cult's altar. The city's great tower-lights had long since shut their gaze to the Shaded. Down here, people cries were not heard, their stifled struggle in an attempt to defy there fate, protected what they hated most.
And still, they followed him.
The irony made his grin widen. They had crowned him holy because he could speak. Because he told them what they needed to hear. That the soul could be redeemed. That suffering meant something. That the flame would save them.
But Solum wasn't here to be saved.
He was here to cheat the cycle entirely.
High-Flame Irin approached and offered the torch.
"Do you accept the final illumination?" he asked, voice barely audible over the wind.
Solum took it. The torch pulsed with unnatural glow—siphoned from one of the stolen Luxed cores, cracked and unstable. Good. The cleaner the flame, the more merciless the light. That was how he'd designed it.
"I do," Solum said.
He turned toward the alter and knelt upon it, one knee to the wood, then both. The oil soaked through his robes, stung his skin. He closed his eyes.
This would hurt. Yes.
But it would end. And then… something else would begin. Something not even the goddess could touch.
He touched the flame to the base.
It caught quickly. Too quickly. The light surged up the oil lines, devouring the symbols, climbing his limbs with greedy elegance. Fire crackled and danced, coiling around him like a serpent.
He kept his eyes closed.
He did not scream.
The crowd erupted into cries of praise and awe. A hymn began—low and rhythmic, a chant passed down from the cult's founding scripture. Irin wept openly beside the altar.
solum could hear a cry as he burned, it drowned out his dread, the goddess wept for the sins of humanity and yet he burned.
But Solum felt nothing rising.
He waited.
And waited.
Then… the pain changed.
It wasn't burning anymore. It was pulling. Not his body—but something deeper. His soul, uncoiling. Stretching. Being summoned upward, just as he'd intended.
He opened his mouth to laugh—
—and was slammed back down.
The flame faltered.
His eyes flew open.
The crowd was still singing. Irin still weeping. But the fire… rejected him.
Something went wrong.
The light refused him.
Instead of soaring upward into divine purity, Solum felt his soul plunge into something else. Something cold. A pit that didn't open—it consumed. His limbs jerked, spasming violently. The alter cracked beneath him. The flames turned pale, then white, then black.
The light was no longer lifting him.
It was purging him.
And still, the people sang.