Morning comes slowly to Mars.
The sky is soft red mixed with gold, like warm dust floating in light. It does not rush. The light spreads little by little, touching the tall stone towers, the quiet streets, the wide roofs. It feels like the planet itself is waking up tired, opening one eye, then another. The air is cool, gentle, and thin. Nothing moves fast. Everything waits.
The city begins to breathe. Temple bells ring from far places, not loud, not sharp, just slow and steady. Their sound travels across the stone roads and narrow lanes. Smoke rises from food stalls as fires are lit. The smell of grain bread and sweet roots fills the air. Soft wind moves the hanging flags and loose cloth above doors. They wave like they remember old prayers. The wind does not push. It only touches.
People come out of their homes quietly. Merchants open wooden doors and pull their carts into place. A fruit seller sits near the corner, arranging red fruits in neat rows. He fixes them again and again, even when they are already perfect. His hands shake a little, but he does not know why. He tells himself it is just another morning.
Children walk beside their parents. They do not run. They do not shout. Their steps are slow, their voices low. Even the youngest ones feel something heavy in the air. Animals act the same way. Riding beasts stand still, ears alert, eyes calm but watchful. Birds sit on ledges without singing much. It is peaceful, too peaceful, like the world is holding its breath.
Near the city gate, a soldier stands in full armor. He rubs a cloth over his chest plate, polishing it again and again. The metal already shines, showing the red sky on its surface. Still, he cleans it, as if preparing for something unseen. He pauses once, looks at his reflection, then continues. He feels proud and afraid at the same time, without knowing the reason.
In a narrow street, a woman selling water suddenly presses her hand to her chest. Her heart beats fast for one moment, then slows. She looks around, confused. Nothing is wrong. The street is safe. The morning is calm. She tells herself she is fine and returns to her work, but her hand stays close to her heart.
Everywhere, small moments repeat. Doors are opened twice. Prayers are whispered longer than usual. People stop walking for no reason and then continue. No one speaks about it. No one asks questions. The calm is deep, thick, and strange. It feels like the quiet before a story begins.
Slowly, without planning it, people start to look in one direction. Shopkeepers pause. Soldiers stop moving. Children lift their heads. One by one, eyes turn toward the palace on the high ground. No words are spoken. No signal is given. They just look. The palace stands still under the red-gold sky, silent, waiting, as if it knows what this morning truly means.
The great temple stood silent at the heart of the city, older than memory, heavier than belief. Its stone walls were dark and cold, breathing in the weak light of the morning. Inside, the air smelled of ash and old incense. At the center rose the massive god statue, carved from a single mountain of stone. It was taller than the temple roof, its body wide and firm, as if holding the sky itself. Time had eaten away its details. The face was calm but distant. The eyes, once sharp and watching, were now worn smooth by centuries of wind, smoke, and prayer. They did not look at the people anymore. They looked through them.
Cracks ran across the statue's chest, arms, and face. These were not repaired with stone. They were filled with gold and ash. The gold shone softly, like frozen sunlight trapped in wounds. The ash dulled the shine, reminding everyone that even gods break. The cracks looked beautiful from far away, but close up they felt wrong, like something broken pretending to be whole.
Below the statue, priests and magic people sat in long lines on the stone floor. Their legs were folded, their backs straight, their eyes closed. Robes brushed the ground like still water. They chanted slowly, one deep sound flowing into the next. Their voices rose and fell together, steady and calm, like breathing. The sound filled the temple and pressed against the walls. It felt safe. It felt controlled.
Cold air moved through the hall, sliding over skin and stone. Still, small signs of trouble hid inside the calm. One priest's hands began to shake, just a little. His fingers tried to stay still, but they failed again and again. Another magic worker lost focus for a brief moment. His chant broke, only for a breath, before he forced it back into place. Sweat formed on his forehead and ran down his face, even though the air was cold enough to sting.
The candles placed around the hall burned quietly, their flames thin and pale. Wax dripped slowly onto the floor. The head pandit sat closest to the statue, his face peaceful, his voice soft. "The energy is clean," he said, almost like a prayer. The words moved through the hall and settled into the chants. No one questioned him. No one opened their eyes.
But the ground answered in its own way. A faint hum passed through the stone floor, so light it felt more like a thought than a sound. The candles flickered, not upward, but sideways, as if pushed by a wind that did not exist. Shadows shifted along the walls. For a second, they moved slower than the bodies that made them, like they were tired, or thinking.
No one reacted. The chanting continued. Breathing stayed even. Faces remained calm. Faith held the room together, thick and heavy. Above them all, the god statue stood unmoving, its blind eyes watching nothing. Then, as the light changed, the statue's shadow stretched across the floor. It grew longer than it should have, sliding past the priests, past the candles, touching the far wall of the temple, where no shadow had ever reached before.
The market wakes before the sun. Narrow streets fill with soft noise, not loud, not rushed. People walk slowly, as if the air itself is sacred today. Whispers move faster than footsteps. Everyone knows something important is coming. No one says it directly, but the feeling is everywhere. Old men smile without reason. Women tie their scarves tighter, as if preparing for prayer. The ground of Mars feels warm under bare feet, like it is alive and listening.
Fabric sellers open their shops one by one. Rolls of red, white, and golden cloth hang from wooden poles. The fabrics move gently in the morning breeze, touching each other like they are greeting old friends. One seller lifts a shining white cloth and says softly, "A royal child changes everything." Another nods and replies, "This year will be safe." No one argues. Hope is not questioned today. It is accepted like truth.
Water carriers walk through the streets with metal pots balanced on their shoulders. Each step makes a soft sound, like a bell. Drops of water fall and disappear into the red dust. A young carrier stops near a shop and says, "Mars will shine again." The shopkeeper smiles and gives him a cup of water for free. Kindness feels easy today, like it costs nothing.
Children run between adults, laughing and shouting. They hold paper symbols in their hands, folded into shapes of stars, suns, and ancient signs. Some symbols are clumsy, some are beautiful, but all are held with pride. A small girl lifts her paper sun high and says, "This is for the baby prince." Her friends cheer. No one tells them to be quiet.
From far away, a royal announcement echoes faintly from the palace. The words are not clear, but the sound alone makes people stop. Heads turn toward the high walls in the distance. Some people place their hands on their hearts. Others close their eyes. The message travels through the streets like a blessing carried by air.
The scene shifts slowly toward the palace. Outside noise fades with every step closer. Inside, long corridors stretch like endless paths. White stone walls reflect soft light, clean and cold. The floor shines as if it has never known dirt. There are no decorations, no music, no voices. The silence here feels heavy, louder than any crowd.
The King stands alone near a tall pillar. He does not move. His hands are folded. His eyes are open, but he is not looking at anything. He is listening, not with ears, but with his soul. Every breath he takes feels like a prayer.
In another chamber, the Queen lies quietly. Her eyes are closed. Her face is calm, but tired. She does not speak. She does not move. Her chest rises and falls slowly. It feels like she is holding the future inside her silence. Around her, candles burn without flicker.
A pandit stands nearby, his voice barely more than a breath. He whispers, "Something ancient is moving." The words fall into the room and stay there. No one asks what he means. No one dares to.
Outside the palace, the wind slows. Flags stop moving. Fabrics freeze in the air. Dust settles. Across Mars, everything becomes still. Then the wind stops completely.
Time begins to stretch, like something thick pulling the world backward. The sky above the city slowly loses its color. Blue turns dull. Light feels tired. Clouds do not move, they only gather, pressing down. Birds that always circle the towers suddenly rise together, confused, frightened, and leave the city in silence. Their wings make no sound. Magic symbols carved on walls and gates start to fade. Not disappear, just dim, like eyes closing. The glow that protected the city feels weak, unsure, as if it knows something it cannot stop.
Inside the palace, the air feels heavy. Bowls of water placed for rituals begin to tremble. Small ripples move across the surface even though nothing touches them. Metal ornaments, crowns, weapons, and doors start to hum softly, not loud enough to hear clearly, but enough to feel inside the bones. The sound is low and deep, like a memory of thunder. The walls of the palace feel closer than before. Corridors seem shorter. Rooms feel tighter. Breathing becomes slow, not from fear, but from weight.
The pandit stands near the sacred space, his hands shaking as he holds the ancient book. He has chanted these words all his life, but tonight they feel different. The letters seem heavier on his tongue. His voice moves through the room, steady at first, then slower. The chant fills the palace like a final warning. Once, just once, his voice cracks. He pauses for half a breath, then continues. No one speaks. No one moves. Even the guards forget to blink.
Outside, the city changes without warning. People walking in the streets suddenly stop talking. Words die in their mouths. Music from houses cuts off at the same moment. Bells freeze mid-swing. Wind that always flowed through the streets disappears. Clothes stop fluttering. Flags hang straight down. It feels as if the world itself is listening. Everyone looks around, confused, but no one asks a question. Somewhere far away, beyond the mountains and beyond the sky, something answers.
It is not a sound. There is no noise, no echo, no scream. It is pressure. A deep force that presses against the chest, the head, the heart. People feel it differently. Some feel it as fear. Some as sadness. Some as a strange pull, like being called by a name they do not remember. The ground does not shake, but it feels heavier, as if gravity itself has grown curious.
Candles inside the great temple flicker once and go out together, leaving darkness behind. In the market, fruits stacked carefully begin to roll and fall to the ground for no reason, bruising softly. Far away, in a small home, a child suddenly starts crying, loud and sharp, as if sensing what adults cannot. The cry cuts through the stillness, then fades into the silence again.
Inside the palace, the pandit reaches the final words of the chant. Sweat runs down his face. The air tightens. Time feels stretched to its limit, thin like a thread about to break. Everyone waits. The world holds its breath. And just before the first cry of new life is born into the silence, the chapter ends.