LightReader

Chapter 8 - Halo Sermon

The plaza under the Halo was too bright to lie to itself.Mirrors on the surrounding towers leaned inward, all facing the false sun as if afraid it might wander off without their devotion. The light wasn't warm—it was a weight, pressed evenly over every eyelid, flattening the shadows until even doubt had nowhere to stand.

Kade moved along the outer edge of the crowd, skimming its currents without letting himself be caught in its pull. His jacket still smelled faintly of Clement's copper-mark; every breath was an old coin rubbed warm between teeth. Mira was back at the clinic, counting minutes and pretending they were hours. The envelope was paid into safety for now. He told himself that meant he had earned the right to be here, watching the man who owned the city's light.

The Archon stepped onto the dais without being announced. He didn't need to be. The crowd stilled the way dogs do when they hear a master's boot on tile. Archon Solace was robed in white so dense it seemed carved, the folds too exact for accident. His head was bare, hair cut with the precision of a man who would never need a second mirror. The Halo's glare caught in his eyes, but he didn't squint.

When he spoke, his voice carried without amplification, the kind of voice that has never had to ask twice.

"Pain ends in light."

The sentence landed like a nail. The crowd exhaled together, not relief—permission.

He let the words hang, unadorned, before he went on.

"You live in a city that has been spared the cruelty of darkness. No citizen here need stumble, no child need fear the loss of their way. Our light is patient. It burns away what burdens you. The griefs, the shames, the cuts that will not close—burned clean. A gift that asks only what you no longer wish to carry."

A woman near Kade shivered, and he saw the wetness in her eyes was not from the brightness. She mouthed something—thank you, maybe.

Solace lifted a hand, palm out. "There are those who say memory is sacred. That to lose it is to be less. I say: to be less burdened is to be more free. When you pawn your pain, you are not poorer. You are unshackled."

The crowd murmured, a ripple of agreement, the sound of chains being mistaken for windchimes.

Kade's jaw tightened. He thought of Mira's eyelid twitch, the blank moment after her seizures where she looked around the room like she'd misplaced herself. He thought of Clement's offer to take a boy's first bite of orange. Pain didn't burn clean. It left a scent. A shadow. A cost.

Solace began to walk the edge of the dais, meeting eyes without blinking. His presence was surgical, cutting a path through the crowd without touching anyone.

"Every lumen in this city is given by the faithful. Every lumen is a kindness. Do not hoard your wounds. Let them go. Let the light carry them."

Behind him, the Halo pulsed once, subtle, like a living thing that had heard its name. Kade swore the brightness shifted toward Solace's voice, as if the machine itself leaned in.

"Those who cling to darkness," Solace said, "keep their sickness close. They feed it. They call it selfhood. But the self is a cage if it will not open its door."

Kade felt the words trying to climb into him, test the bars. He'd heard this cadence before—different pulpits, different uniforms—but the same hunger in the phrasing: give me what's yours, and I will tell you you're free.

A Mercy moved through the crowd, white-cloaked, collecting envelopes. The movement was seamless—no demanding, no jostling—just palms out, paper folded into paper, light bought from the poor like it was charity.

Solace stopped at the center of the dais. The light caught the lines in his face, made them into roads.

"I will not pretend this gift is without price," he said. "But I promise you: the price is less than the weight you carry. Every day you keep your pain is a day you choose not to be whole."

The crowd's breath drew in, a tide. Kade stayed still.

He imagined stepping forward, asking the Archon what he knew about keeping something because it was the only proof you'd lived through it. About scars that were not sickness but survival. About mornings paid for in copper taste and nights bought with everything but surrender.

Instead, he kept his hands in his pockets. Watched the light sharpen around Solace like a crown.

Solace bowed his head—not in humility, but in conclusion. "Pain ends in light," he repeated, softer this time, and the crowd repeated it back, a litany.

When the sermon ended, the people didn't leave at once. They lingered, as if the glow might fade if they turned away too quickly.

Kade turned first. Walked back into the Lowlight where the mirrors couldn't follow, carrying the taste of metal in his mouth and the shape of a voice he would one day have to answer.

The city behind him hummed, not with thought, but with something older: the sound of memory burning, steady as a sun that had never been real.

More Chapters