The Girl That Stole The Sun: Chapter 1

The Trickster's Gambit

Note: The Girl Who Stole the Sun was written in one month as a creative experiment. It's imperfect, it's messy, and it's shared here openly—for anyone who believes stories are worth telling, even when they're not polished to perfection. Thank you for reading.

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Chapter 1: The Trickster’s Gambit

The sun had not risen in Solmir for sixty-eight days.

What remained of the sky was a deep, endless slate of gray, swirling with distant embers of dying light. The air was thick with the scent of melted wax and burning incense, the acrid tang of desperation clinging to every stone street, every prayer uttered behind trembling lips. The people of Solmir whispered of omens, of divine punishment, of the wrath of the gods—and, above all else, of the Offering.

The city had seen decline before. Wars had bled its borders dry, plagues had swept through its streets like wildfire, but nothing compared to this. The absence of the sun had stolen the warmth from the air, twisting crops into brittle husks, draining color from the world itself. The markets, once lively and bursting with voices haggling over fruit and cloth, had grown hushed. People still gathered, of course—desperation demanded movement—but there was no joy in the transactions.

It was the perfect time for a trickster to thrive.

Lirien moved like a shadow through the market square, her steps light, her fingers lighter. She was small and unassuming, her sharp features obscured beneath the hood of a tattered cloak. Her boots barely made a sound against the cracked cobblestones as she weaved through the thinning crowds, her hands working swiftly, effortlessly. A coin purse here, a silver brooch there—nothing too grand, nothing too conspicuous. Just enough to keep her belly full and her pockets lined.

The people of Solmir were too distracted to notice a single girl slipping between them like mist. Their attention was drawn elsewhere—to the city’s great marble steps, where the High Priests had gathered in their resplendent robes, standing beneath the shadow of the great temple. Their voices rang out over the hushed marketplace, calling for patience, for faith. For sacrifice.

“The gods demand devotion,” one of the priests intoned, his voice clear and unwavering, despite the wary murmurs rippling through the crowd. His robes, woven with threads of gold and deep crimson, shimmered even in the dim light. Embroidered sunbursts sprawled across his sleeves, a mark of the High Council’s favor. “Through faith, we endure. Through sacrifice, we are redeemed.”

Another priest, an older man with silver-threaded hair and a sharp, hawk-like gaze, raised his hands.

“The Offering approaches,” the priest intoned, his voice ringing across the square, each syllable crisp, deliberate, weighty. “And with it, the dawn shall return. The Chosen will be named, and through them, the balance shall be restored.”

The speaker was not just any priest. He was Theophus, High Priest of Aureon, Voice of the Divine. Even beneath the sunless sky, his golden robes shimmered, their embroidered sigils reflecting the dying light like molten metal. He stood at the head of the temple steps, hands clasped before him, his presence towering despite his lean frame.

His face was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes missed nothing.

The crowd hushed beneath his gaze. Even the murmured prayers, the uneasy shifting of bodies, all fell still.

Theophus did not need to demand obedience. His existence was obedience.

He surveyed the people of Solmir with an air of careful detachment. To him, they were not individuals—only a mass of devoted souls awaiting their place in the Cycle. He did not raise his voice, because he had never needed to. When he spoke, people listened. And when he chose, people obeyed.

“Rejoice, children of Solmir,” Theophus continued, his voice smooth as polished stone. “For the gods have turned their gaze upon us. We are not forsaken! We are chosen. Soon, the name of the one most blessed among us shall be revealed, and through their devotion, the dawn shall break once more.”

A calculated pause. A moment to let hope sink its claws into the crowd before twisting it into submission.

“This is not a burden,” Theophus said, softer now, almost reverent. “This is an honor. The gods do not take freely, nor do they choose lightly. To give oneself to the Cycle is to become eternal. To be Chosen is to be remembered.”

A flicker of something behind his expression—satisfaction, perhaps, or something colder.

A hush followed, uneasy and expectant, as if the priests truly expected someone to step forward willingly. But the crowd only pressed closer together, shoulders stiff, eyes darting away. A mother pulled her child behind her cloak. An old man exhaled shakily, hands clasped in silent prayer.

No one wanted to be chosen. No one wanted to be the one sent to die for a god who had abandoned them.

The priests’ eyes moved over the crowd, searching, measuring.

For a split second, something tightened in Lirien’s chest—an instinct she didn’t want to name, some old ghost of a feeling she should have forgotten by now. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. But it was close enough to make her fingers twitch at her sides, her throat tighten like a hand had just closed around it.

She knew the way the priests looked at the people of Solmir. She had seen that gaze before, felt it weigh heavy on her skin when she was too young to understand what it meant. A casual study. A quiet calculation.

As if the only thing keeping someone alive was whether the gods had chosen them yet.

But it was gone as quickly as it came, smothered under years of practiced indifference. She tilted her head, smirking. The gods had no use for her.

Lirien scoffed under her breath. Empty words from men who had never known hunger, who stood swathed in silk and gold while the rest of the city crumbled. She had no patience for them, nor for the fools who still clung to their promises.

She had heard it all before—pious words meant to keep the people in check, to turn their fear into obedience. She had no love for the gods, no patience for the empty promises of those who claimed to speak for them. The gods had never done anything for her, not when she was left to starve in the gutter, not when she shivered through the bitter nights while the nobles feasted behind golden doors.

No, she had learned young that the only person she could rely on was herself.

And she had learned, too, that faith was a currency like any other.

At the edge of the square, tucked beneath an old archway, Lirien let her latest marks slip away into the crowd before drawing a small cloth-wrapped bundle from beneath her cloak. She unfurled it with practiced ease, revealing a trinket nestled in the center—a delicate amulet of gold and ruby, glinting even beneath the dim sky. A fine piece of craftsmanship, intricate enough to fool even the sharpest eye.

A “Sun-Blessed” relic.

She had sold a dozen of them this past week, each one crafted by a jeweler she had long since paid off. The desperate were eager to believe in miracles, eager to cling to something tangible when the gods refused to answer their pleas. And Lirien, ever the opportunist, was more than happy to provide.

But as she slinked past the gathered masses, she felt the weight of a gaze settle on her. A flicker of movement from the temple steps—one of the younger acolytes, a boy dressed in the simpler white robes of a lesser priest, staring down at her with furrowed brows. Not with suspicion, but with something else. Recognition? Curiosity?

Lirien quickened her pace, slipping deeper into the crowd before his gaze could linger too long.

She spotted another target easily enough—a nobleman wrapped in heavy furs, his face pinched with worry. He hovered at the market’s edge, his fingers twitching with nervous energy, the kind of man who had more coin than sense. A perfect mark.

Lirien stepped into his path, her movements fluid, careful. She softened her expression just so, letting her eyes widen with the perfect mixture of urgency and reverence, immediacy and innocence.

“My lord,” she whispered, clutching the amulet between her fingers. “I beg you—just a moment of your time.”

The man’s gaze flickered to her, wary. “I’ve no coin for beggars.”

“I ask for nothing,” she said quickly, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial hush. “Only to share a blessing. A miracle.”

She held the amulet up just enough for the ruby to catch the dim light, letting it shimmer with an otherworldly glow. The noble’s eyes locked onto it, the greed—the hope—flickering across his face exactly as she had expected.

“The High Priests don’t want you to know,” Lirien continued, leaning in as if sharing a sacred truth. “But the gods have not abandoned us. The Sun still hears our prayers—His fire still burns. And this…” She placed the amulet into his palm, letting the warmth of her fingers linger, the way a true believer might. “…This is proof.”

She saw it happen—the way his lips parted slightly, the way his grip tightened around the trinket. He wanted to believe. They always did.

“How?” he asked, his voice barely above a breath.

Lirien sighed, letting just the right amount of weariness seep into her voice. “A priest in the mountain shrines—he was cast out for his visions, but I found him. He entrusted me with this, swore that those who carry it will be spared the worst of what is to come.” She lowered her gaze, letting a shadow pass over her features. “The Offering is near, my lord. And not all will survive it.”

A flicker of fear. A twitch of the jaw. That was the final push.

The noble swallowed hard, fumbling for his belt pouch. “How much?”

Lirien smiled.

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She was counting her earnings when a shadow flickered at the edge of her vision. A shape lingering just beyond the crowd, unmoving.

Lirien tensed, her fingers brushing the hilt of the dagger tucked beneath her cloak. She had slipped away clean—who would be watching her now?

Then, a voice, low and steady.

“That was a bold lie you told back there.”

She turned slowly, already slipping the dagger from her sleeve. The boy stood with his arms crossed, posture too still, expression too unreadable. But his fingers—resting lightly against the folds of his temple robes—twitched once, betraying unease.

Edrin.

The sight of him made Lirien’s stomach tighten with irritation. She knew him—not well, but enough. One of the temple’s favored, raised among hymns and prophecies, trained to kneel before gods who never answered. A lamb, docile and dutiful.

Or, at least, that’s what he was supposed to be.

Yet there he stood, robes pristine despite the filth-streaked streets, posture straight as if the weight of the gods still rested on his shoulders. He had stayed. Through everything, through the lies, through the whispers, through the truth that had driven her away. He had stayed.

And now he was watching her. Too carefully. Not just with suspicion, but with something else.

Something like hesitation.

“What do you want, temple boy?” Lirien drawled, flashing him an easy smirk, shifting her weight just enough to seem relaxed. “Come to drag me to the High Priests? I’d love to hear the charges. Let’s see—fraud? Thievery? General godlessness?”

Edrin didn’t smile. He didn’t even scowl, which would have at least been expected. Instead, he studied her like she was an answer to a question he hadn’t realized he was asking.

“You mock the Offering,” he said, voice even. “But you’re afraid of it.”

The smirk faltered—just slightly, just enough for her to smooth it over before it became noticeable.

“I mock plenty of things,” she said lightly. “Doesn’t mean I care.”

Something flickered in his expression, like he wanted to say more—but didn’t.

As she watched him, she realized he looked the part, too. He was dressed in the muted robes of a temple acolyte, the fabric worn but well-kept, embroidered at the edges with faded gold thread. His hair was cropped neatly, dark curls barely brushing his brow, and his sharp features might have been handsome if they weren’t so often set in quiet disapproval.

Lirien felt a flicker of annoyance at the way he stood—too still, too sure, like he had already decided what she was.

And she hated being predictable.

Her grip on the coin purse in her hand tightened as she tilted her head, her lips curling into a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “What, did the gods send you to scold me personally?”

Edrin didn’t take the bait. He only studied her, his expression unreadable. Then, after a beat, he spoke.

“I want to know why you’re playing with fire.”

“Sun-fire?”

“This isn’t a joke, Lirien.”

Lirien scoffed. “I don’t see any flames.”

“You will,” he said, his voice quieter now. “The High Council has seen an omen. A prophecy.”

Lirien huffed a laugh, crossing her arms. “Let me guess. They peered into their sacred fire and saw something terribly ominous? Maybe a goat sneezed at just the right moment, and now the world is doomed?”

She tilted her head, watching him carefully beneath her lashes. Edrin was many things, a coward, a faithful…but he wasn’t a liar—that much she knew. If he was here, warning her, then he believed what he was saying.

But she didn’t.

Prophecies were a tool of control, just another story spun by the Council to keep people obedient. She had no reason to care.

And yet, despite herself, she found she was listening.

Edrin hesitated, his brows knitting together. “They say a Chosen One will be sacrificed to restore the sun.”

Lirien tilted her head, feigning disinterest. “That so?”

“The gods do not take kindly to liars.”

She grinned. “Good thing I don’t put much faith in gods.”

Edrin hesitated, his gaze flickering—not to her face, but lower. To the pendant beneath her cloak.

A prickle of unease crawled up Lirien’s spine. Her fingers twitched before she even realized what she was doing, tugging the edge of her cloak to obscure the small, worn disc of metal. A useless reflex—it was already too late. He’d seen it.

Edrin’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his posture. Recognition? No—something else. Something unreadable.

Lirien let out a slow breath, forcing herself to smirk. "Eyes up here, temple boy."

Edrin didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced upward, toward the sky—not in prayer, but as if searching for something.

A gust of wind cut through the marketplace, sharp as a blade. Cloth rippled, dust spiraled. A lantern guttered once—twice—then died, its light swallowed by the air.

Violet smoke curled upward, twisting like fingers.

Lirien went still. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, though she refused to shiver.

She had spent her whole life running from the gods.

So why, for the first time, did it feel like they were watching her?