THE PURIFICATION OF THE FLAME
(Narrated by a most attentive observer, who knows far too much and yet not nearly enough.)
Dearest reader, if you had walked through Solmire this morning, you would have sworn that the sun itself had decided to descend and dwell among mortals.
At dawn, the city awoke not to the usual toll of the palace bells, but to the slow, rhythmic hum of prayers. From the first ring to the farthest ash-stained alley, the kingdom shimmered with life, streets brushed clean, banners of red-gold unfurled from marble balconies, and children laughing as they scattered crushed ember petals that glittered like sparks beneath their bare feet.
The Heart of Flame, the royal palace itself, blazed brighter than ever. Its white stone towers caught the morning light until they seemed to burn, a fitting sight, for today marked the beginning of the Pyrosanct Festival.
The beauty of Solmire was divided into three division.
