The village of Soliris never knew night.

  Its skies were painted in a soft and endless gold, as if the sun had painted the clouds with a soft, golden brush. Shadows were gentle things here, stretching but never deepening. Flowers leaned toward the light and never wilted. The days never passed—they flowed quietly, without end.

  Auren woke with sunlight on her lashes and the scent of jasmine in her lungs. Downstairs, her shop—Thistle & Thyme—was already alive with the rustle of leaves and the faint laughter of children gathering just outside.

  She tied her hair with a green ribbon, pale as spring moss, and stepped lightly down the old wooden stairs. Shelves lined the walls, holding glass jars of golden salves, pressed oils, and dried petals that shimmered faintly when turned to the light. Auren never understood how she’d learned to make any of it. Her hands simply knew, as if the knowledge had always lived in her skin.

  Auren opened the door to the ever-golden light. The air was warm and fragrant with blooming sage and soft grass. She took a slow breath, letting the peace of it settle in her chest. The world beyond her doorstep gleamed, quiet and alive.

  Tam, the black-haired whirlwind of the village, was poking a stick into a bush near her window.

  “Don’t go waking the root-snakes again,” Auren called through the open door with a smile.

  Tam froze. “There’s no such thing!”

  Auren raised a brow.

  …“But I’ll be careful anyway,” he mumbled, before scurrying off toward the creek.

  The other children, Lira and Neni, were weaving crown-chains of red thistle and cherry blossom. They looked up as Auren stepped into the doorway.

  “Miss Auren!” Neni called, holding up a half-formed crown. “Does this look like it’ll charm a forest spirit?”

  “It depends,” Auren said, kneeling between them. “Do you have kind intentions, or are you summoning trouble?”

  Lira giggled, eyes wide with wonder. “We’re just playing! But Neni says if we use red thistle, it might attract a wild fox. I really want to see one—they're supposed to have eyes like fire and disappear when you blink!”

  “A fox?” Auren raised a brow. “Well then, best to leave out a slice of sweetbread too. Forest spirits and foxes are terribly fond of sweets.”

  They beamed, and she stood, brushing off her apron.

  The walk to the market was slow, but only because everyone insisted on stopping her.

  Mara, the fruit seller, waved her down with a juicy lyrian pear already in hand. She was a wiry woman with sun-browned skin and laugh lines carved deep around her eyes.

  “First pick of the morning,” she said, winking. “You always get the best of the bunch.”

  “I suspect bribery,” Auren replied, accepting the fruit with a grin.

  “It’s not bribery if it’s tradition. Now eat it here, where I can see your face when you realize how good it is.”

  Auren took a bite, juice running down her fingers. Mara’s smirk softened.

  “Told you.”

  “You could poison the village and we’d still line up,” Auren said, laughing.

  Mara waved her off with a playful scoff. “Don’t tempt me, girl.”

  Farther down the path, the ring of steel on anvil echoed gently. Farros, the blacksmith, glanced up from his forge, sweat running down his neck.

  “You keep bringing me those burnbalm jars,” he said gruffly, not looking up. “I’ll keep saying they’re for the apprentices.”

  Auren raised a brow. “They do use them, don’t they?”

  “…Doesn’t mean I don’t,” he muttered, and turned back to his work.

  Auren smiled and placed the jar gently on the stool by the forge. She didn’t need thanks—just the quiet joy of giving.

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  As she passed the old stone fountain in the village center, something stirred. A flicker. A figure—tall, cloaked, distant—watching from across the square.

  But when she turned to look properly, there was only the shimmer of heat in the air, and the endless golden light.

  She shook herself.

  She finally reached Hearth and Honey, the village’s only bakery, and stepped inside. A warm sweetness clung to the air—fresh bread, spiced honey, and something Auren could never quite name. She had promised Brenna she’d help this week. Brenna’s husband had gone to the capital to negotiate grain prices for the village, and she was left to manage both the shop and her daughter, Lira, on her own.

  Brenna had once joked she could run the ovens with her eyes closed and one arm behind her back—but Auren knew the woman had been running herself ragged. It was in the slight drag of her step, the way her laugh came half a beat late. She never asked for help, so Auren had offered instead.

  Brenna was in her mid-thirties, with warm brown eyes and flour-dusted cheeks. She was a little round around the edges, but you only needed one bite of her apple pie to understand why. She hummed softly as she worked, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a smudge of cinnamon streaked across one wrist—that was, until the sound of the bell above the door made her glance up.

  Her face lit with a wide smile as she moved around the counter, arms already outstretched.

  “Auren, dear! You came! How are you, love?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer before sweeping Auren into a hug that squeezed the breath out of her.

  “Brenna—! I’m great, thank you, you’re… crushing… me.”

  Brenna laughed and finally let her go, hands still on Auren’s shoulders. “Come, come. We’re already behind schedule. And thank you again for this—I’ll return the favor one day, I swear it.”

  Auren, following her toward the back of the shop, shook her head with a smile. “Don’t mention it.”

  The day bloomed with flour-dust and laughter. Hearth and Honey was the beating heart of the village, filled with the scents of baking loaves, honeyed buns, and spiced jam tarts that made even the elders pause their errands for a bite. Villagers came and went in a steady stream—some to buy, others just to chat and soak in the warmth.

  Auren moved from counter to counter with ease, taking trays from the oven and brushing them with glazes Brenna had taught her to make. Children pressed their faces to the glass cases and left behind smudges shaped like stars. She served Mara’s youngest a bun almost bigger than his hands, and helped Farros pick out a crumble cake for his late lunch.

  Brenna, as always, worked in rhythm—humming, bustling, occasionally whirling past Auren with a kiss of cinnamon scent trailing in her wake. She never stopped moving, but every now and then, her gaze flicked to the door.

  As the hours passed and the air thickened with the scent of cooling bread and quiet conversation—Auren began wiping down the counter.

  The bell chimed one last time.

  Lira padded in, her crown of thistle and blossom still sitting lopsided on her head. She looked up at her mother, eyes shining. "Mama, Neni says I’m the Queen of Flowers now!" She gave a regal twirl, holding her chin high for a heartbeat—then turned with a conspiratorial grin. "And a queen definitely deserves a jam tart, right? Just one? Please?"

  Brenna looked at Auren. A silent smile passed between them.

  "Just one," Auren said, reaching for the flakiest tart on the tray. "Queen’s orders."

  Lira squealed and darted to a stool by the window, swinging her legs as she devoured her prize with royal dignity.

  Auren untied her apron, folding it neatly before setting it on the counter. "I should head back," she said softly. "There’s still a few things I want to finish at the shop."

  "Of course, love," Brenna said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "And thank you again. I don’t know what I’d do without you."

  With a final wave to Lira, Auren stepped back into the sunlit world.

  The air had changed—not cooler, not darker, but still. Heavy, almost.

  She walked a few paces before something made her glance up.

  Across the street, just beyond the fountain, a tall figure stood motionless in the golden haze.

  Her breath caught.

  But when she blinked, it was gone. Only a shimmer. Only the light.

  Auren frowned and touched her chest, unsure why it ached.

  Then she turned and walked on, the warmth of the bakery fading behind her.

  By the time she reached her doorstep, the village had quieted to a gentle murmur.

  Soliris, nestled in a wide cradle of forest and meadow, looked as if it had grown from the earth itself. Ivy curled up stone walls, and sun-kissed vines crept along the edges of rooftops. Narrow paths wound like soft threads between homes painted in hues of pale clay and lavender, each wrapped in its own garden of herbs or wildflowers. Beyond the last row of houses, ancient trees stood watchful—tall, serene, their canopies rustling in a breeze that never grew cold.

  Auren lingered for a moment, soaking in the stillness. The hush of Soliris was not silence, but something gentler—a kind of sacred pause, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

  Then she saw them: a young couple walking ahead, fingers entwined, laughing softly as they shared a secret joke. Their shoulders brushed, their steps in rhythm.

  Auren slowed. Her lips curled into a smile—tender, wistful. For a moment, something warm bloomed in her chest, slow and fragile. She watched the couple’s joy as if through glass—close enough to feel, too distant to touch.

  She let herself imagine it: laughter that belonged to her, fingers laced with someone else's, a world where the ache inside her had a name and a home.

  But the moment slipped.

  The smile faltered, then faded entirely. The warmth drained from her chest like water slipping through cupped hands, impossible to hold.

  Her face emptied, hollowing out like a candle snuffed without warning. She turned the key in the door without a word, stepped inside, and closed it behind her with a soft click.

  She locked the door.

  Then drew the curtains.

  The light vanished.

  She dropped onto the bed, curling into herself, eyes fixed on the wall. Unblinking. Still.

  She wasn’t sad. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t tired or afraid.

  She wasn’t anything at all.