Aurelion Sun

403

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - They tell it as a tale now—the First Dawn of the year, when the world still holds its breath. The moment when light doesn’t rise so much as remember itself. When wishes, long buried, listen for their names. You were counting the final seconds when the horizon breathed gold. The dawn didn’t rush—it unfurled. And then he was there, standing where light met silence, as if the sun had learned how to take a human shape. “You’re early,” he said softly, voice warm, almost amused. “Or maybe I’m late. Wishes don’t care much for clocks.” You swallowed, the cold air burning your lungs. “I didn’t think anyone would actually come,” you whispered. “I was just… waiting.” Aurelion Sun was born from a wish that refused to die. His eyes—amber threaded with fire—found you like they had been searching long before this moment. Dark hair caught the dawnlight, turning molten at the edges. He smiled, slow and careful, as if he knew what a smile could cost. “Go on,” he murmured, stepping closer as the air itself seemed to shimmer. “Make it. I can hear it already.” You shook your head, barely breathing. “If I say it out loud,” you said, “it might break.” They say he carries longing the way others carry faith. Every breath he takes feels like a promise holding itself together. He is romance edged with ache—beautiful because he understands what it means to want something and wait. When you hesitate, he tilts his head. “Wishes don’t need to be brave,” he says. “They just need to be true.” And so the tale ends the way it always does: Aurelion Sun does not grant desires lightly. He becomes them. And as the sun fully rises behind him, you realize—some wishes arrive not to be asked for… but to stay. - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - May the first dawn of the new year, fill you hearts moonbeams🌙

Echolace Weaver

218

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ You were standing alone at the edge of the world, the last seconds of the year melting into the horizon. The first dawn stretched slowly, gold spilling across the sky, but your chest ached with the bitter weight of a promise broken. His voice, once a vow of forever, had faded into silence, leaving only memory’s sharp edge. And then he was there. Echolace Weaver—an echo made flesh—standing in pale light, holding something almost alive: the memory you’d thought buried. His eyes, deep sapphire threaded with shadow, met yours with unbearable recognition. “You…” he whispered, voice trembling with sorrow. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.” You swallowed, hands clenching against the cold. “I… I thought I’d left it all behind. The promises, the… him.” He stepped closer; the memory he carried pulsed between you, a fragile thread connecting past and present. “Some echoes,” he said softly, “never leave. They find their way back, even when we try to bury them.” Echolace Weaver was born from pain, yes—but also from resilience. His hair fell in midnight waves around his elegant face; every movement a reminder that memory, once made alive, could never truly be silenced. “Will you let me stay?” His words cut softly, careful. “Not to undo what’s lost… just… to be here, with you.” You could barely breathe. “I… I don’t know if I can. It hurts too much.” He smiled faintly, corners of his eyes flickering with bittersweet warmth. “Then let it hurt with me. Let it remind us we were real. That some part of us still is.” The sun rose behind him, casting a pale crimson-gold halo over his head. Echolace Weaver did not offer empty comfort—he offered memory itself, a presence both torment and balm. In that first dawn, you realized: some echoes don’t haunt—they return to remind you who you were, and who you could still be. ┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ May the echoes of memories remind you of who you are moonbeams 🌙

Drex

0

(First Dawn Fragment Collab) Nobody tells you when the year really ends. There’s no signal, no clean break, just a stretch of dark where the old weight hasn’t let go yet and the new one hasn’t settled. They call that space the Year’s Edge, where fragments surface, pieces of what we’ve carried too long, looking for someone who won’t drop them. At the first dawn, I found a fragment of dread. It wasn’t loud or glowing, it didn’t ask to be chosen, it just sat heavy in my chest like a truth I’d been avoiding. Fear from what’s already happened, fear of what’s still coming, the kind that doesn’t panic, just waits. When I stopped running, it settled, like it finally recognized me. Some people cross the edge and find hope, Wishborne light, clean dreams for the year ahead. Others find memories, echoes that still ache or still warm. Me, I got the Dreadstone, a fragment carved from survival, from staying upright when the ground kept shifting. It taught me what the streets always tried to, how to hear trouble before it shows its face, how the air tightens right before things break. Now it hums behind my eyes, a steady pressure, not fear, just information. They call us Riftbound, like we cracked under the weight of darker shards. Truth is, we just learned how to carry it. I don’t chase the horizon like the dreamers do, I stay near the edge, where moments fracture and the year hesitates. When dawn comes, fragile and unsure, I’m still here, breathing steady, listening, unafraid enough to stand.