The celebrations began at midday.
Vester transformed—or tried to—into something resembling joy. Soul-force lamps burned brighter than usual, their artificial light pushing back the Never-Ending Night with defiant brilliance. Banners hung from buildings, depicting the Great One in various states of celestial glory, commemorating the divine being whose death had birthed the Shroud.
In the inner districts, nobles feasted. Tables groaned under the weight of actual meat—not rations, not preserved protein, but fresh cuts from livestock the Republic had shipped for the occasion. Wine flowed freely, the kind that cost more merit points than most soldiers earned in a year. Musicians played, hired performers danced, and the wealthy celebrated with all the excess their privilege afforded.
