The first light of Sollarisca's twin dawns spilled over Lightwellmar State, turning the clouds above Solvanairebolis, its capital, into slow-moving rivers of gold.
From the highest balcony of the Radiant Citadel, General Sunbeam stood in full dress uniform, the orange of his coat gleaming like distilled sunrise. Medals caught the light as if they were tiny suns of their own. Below him, the capital was already in motion: banners strung between lampposts, holographic suns rotating above plazas, long folding tables being marched into position by laughing Sun Soldiers.
Behind him, the doors to the balcony slid open with a hiss.
"Reporting as ordered, my Lord General."
Solardye stepped out first, cloak rippling, eyes sharp with logistics. Beside him came Solarpuff, her own commander's uniform crisp, soft curls tucked neatly under her cap, carrying a tablet stacked with routes, manifests, and supply charts. A little further back stood the elites—Sunsam with a grin that refused to be formal, and Sunlance, tall and straight as if he had been carved from a single ray of light.
Sunbeam turned, his orange eyes bright with a warmth that never quite faded. "Good. Today we make the whole of Lightwellmar feel like family."
Solarpuff's lips curved. "The largest public Thanksgiving feast in Solar Regime history, yes? No pressure at all, sir."
Sunsam chuckled. "Pressure is good for baking bread, Commander. Today we bake the whole state."
Sunlance did not smile, but his gaze softened. "Orders, General?"
Sunbeam rested his hands on the balcony's rail. From here he could see the long, radiant avenues stretching toward the horizon, trams gliding on solar rails, and beyond that, the faint silhouettes of distant cities: Soltromberg, Solafleur, Solzenith, Solquaria Nexus, Solbrithis Core, all bound to Solvanairebolis by the golden arteries of skyways and light-roads.
"First," Sunbeam said, "we make sure no table is empty, and no plate is half full."
He pointed outward, as if he could touch each city with a fingertip.
"Solardye—coordinate harvest convoys from Soltromberg and Solzenith. I want grain, root vegetables, and everything their bakeries can spare. Redirect sun-freighters and solar trains if you must. No one in Lightwellmar goes hungry today."
"Consider it done," Solardye replied, already tapping notes onto his wrist console. "I'll deploy supply battalions and escort them with Sun Rangers. We'll turn the rail lines into rivers of food."
"Solarpuff," Sunbeam continued, "I want the orchards of Solafleur and the aquafarms of Solquaria Nexus brought into this. Fruits, herbs, fish—whatever they can donate. Send medical corps as well. Overeating is a blessing, but indigestion is still an enemy," he added with a half-smile.
Solarpuff laughed softly. "Understood. Humanitarian logistics, not just military. We'll treat stomach aches as seriously as battlefield wounds—only with more peppermint tea."
"Sunsam," Sunbeam said, turning to the sergeant, "you're my feet on the ground. You and your unit will help set tables, guide families, and keep the mood bright. If anyone looks like they are standing alone, you sit with them yourself."
Sunsam gave a playful salute. "We'll drag them into conversation, sir. Politely. With extra pie."
"Sunlance," Sunbeam finished, voice growing quieter but even more resolute, "you are my shield. Oversee security, but do it gently. No one should feel they are entering a fortress today. They're coming home."
Sunlance bowed his head. "We will be visible but unobtrusive, General. Guards in the crowd, not above it."
Sunbeam breathed in the cool morning air, filled with the smell of bakeries already working overtime. "Then let us begin. Today we do not simply defend Sollarisca. We make it worth defending."
The Broadcast
Within the hour, the Radiant Citadel's grand hall had transformed into a studio. Sun-emblem banners hung behind a clear lectern engraved with the Solar Regime crest. Multi-lens cameras floated in the air, little drones humming softly like curious insects. Technicians from the Solaris Broadcast Network whispered to each other, adjusting light levels until the General's orange attire became a flawless focal point.
A director counted down with her fingers. Three... two... one...
"People of Sollarisca," General Sunbeam began, voice steady, each word carrying the weight of command and the softness of a kindly older brother, "this is your General Sunbeam, speaking from Solvanairebolis in Lightwellmar State."
Screens across the continent flickered to life. In cafes in Soltromberg, in tram stations in Solzenith, on floating piers in Solquaria Nexus, families and workers turned toward the glowing displays. Children with orange ribbons in their hair hushed one another so they could hear.
"Today," Sunbeam continued, "we celebrate a day of gratitude—a Thanksgiving for all we have endured and all we have built together. We have seen wars, storms, scarcity, and fear. Yet every dawn, the suns of Titanumas rise on a people who refuse to turn against one another."
He laid a hand over his chest. "I created the path of Romanticism and Pro-Socialism so that love would become the strongest weapon in our arsenal. Not just love between partners, but love of family, of neighbors, of strangers who share the same streets and sky. Today, that love becomes a feast."
Images cut to live feeds: supply convoys rolling out of Soltromberg, their cargo pods stacked with bread and grain; airships lifting from Solafleur, carrying baskets of fruits and flowers; fishermen loading glimmering lake-fish into refrigerated transports at Solquaria Nexus.
"In the heart of Solvanairebolis," Sunbeam said, "we are opening the Radiant Plaza to every citizen. No invitations, no reservations. If you can walk, ride, roll, or be carried here, you are welcome. If you cannot come, we will bring Thanksgiving to your districts, your care homes, your hospitals. Sun Soldiers and volunteers will share this feast with you."
He leaned closer to the lens, so that somewhere across the continent, a nervous teenager, an exhausted parent, or a lonely elder might feel he was speaking only to them.
"Come as you are. You owe the regime no tribute, no performance. Your presence is your gift to me. I am thankful for each of you—your stubbornness, your dreams, your ordinary days. You make the Solar Regime worth every sacrifice."
He lifted a glass of clear, sun-sparkling juice.
"To warmth. To peace. To families born and families chosen. To the endless dawn of Sollarisca. Happy Thanksgiving."
The broadcast cut to the crest of the Solar Regime, then dissolved into maps showing routes to Radiant Plaza and local feast centers. Already, trains began to fill.
Radiant Plaza
By late afternoon, the Radiant Plaza of Solvanairebolis had become a living tapestry of orange light.
Thousands of lanterns hovered above the square in slow spiraling patterns, their glow gently shifting from gold to amber to rose and back again. Long wooden tables stretched in every direction like roads made of shared meals. Sun Soldiers, out of their armor, moved among civilians carrying trays: roasted birds with crisp, seasoned skin; mountains of mashed root vegetables; loaves of bread stamped with the sun insignia; bowls of bright fruits glazed in starflower honey.
The air shimmered with steam, spices, and laughter.
Sunbeam walked the central aisle between tables, coat unbuttoned at the collar now, cap tucked under his arm. Children waved when they recognized him; adults straightened in awe and then immediately relaxed when they saw the warmth in his smile.
A cluster of microphones and floating camera-drones followed at a respectful distance, broadcasting the feast live.
He stopped near a table where a group of workers from Soltromberg were piling their plates with ridiculous seriousness, as if performing a sacred ritual.
One of them, a broad-shouldered man with flour still dusting his sleeves, looked up and froze. "G–General Sunbeam, sir!"
Sunbeam inclined his head. "Baker?"
"Yes, sir," the man said, voice trembling. "From Soltromberg central ovens. We shipped the bread this morning."
"Then this feast rests on your hands," Sunbeam replied. "What are you thankful for today?"
The man glanced at his companions. Their eyes shone, half from emotion, half from the lanterns.
"I'm thankful," he said slowly, "that... that I bake more bread than bullets, these days. My ovens are full of loaves instead of rations. That's your doing, sir."
Another worker beside him, a woman with a tired but luminous expression, chimed in, words tumbling over each other.
"I'm thankful my little brother doesn't wake up from nightmares anymore. The sirens stopped. The sky's quiet. I can hear him laugh when the tram goes by. I keep thinking: that laugh exists because you told the world to stop fighting. Thank you, General."
Sunbeam's gaze softened. "Your brother's laughter is the sound of victory, not my medals. Guard it well."
Further down the table, a teenager raised a glass. "General! I'm thankful the academy exam isn't about how many enemies I can defeat, but how many people I can help. Your new policy changed everything."
Laughter rose around them.
Another voice joined in from the crowd, casual and unafraid. "I'm thankful I can complain about the cafeteria food without being arrested!"
"What did you say?" someone teased. "He's standing right there!"
"Relax," yet another voice answered in a joking tone. "General Sunbeam feeds us better than the gods. Look at this stuffing!"
Sunbeam chuckled, letting the banter flow.
A cluster of elders seated together lifted their glasses as he approached.
"General," one of them said, "I'm thankful I've lived long enough to see this plaza full of joy instead of evacuation lines."
"General," another added, "I'm thankful you remember our names when we write to your office. I received a handwritten reply last month. I keep it under my pillow. My grandchildren think I'm exaggerating."
A chorus of laughter rose from the surrounding tables. Someone called out, teasing, "Let us see the letter then!" followed by, "You're not the only one who writes to him!"
Sunbeam pressed a hand to his chest. "I am the one who is thankful—for your patience with my terrible handwriting."
The crowd laughed again.
The Chatter of Thousands
As the suns in the sky dipped toward evening, the plaza became louder, not quieter. Conversations overlapped in a gentle chaos, a tapestry of gratitude.
"...thankful he pardoned my brother. The amnesty program saved him from that fight—"
"...I'm thankful for the housing reforms; we have windows now, real windows, not steel slats. I wake up to sunlight, not floodlights—"
"...did you hear how he redirected military funds to schools? My youngest is learning orbital engineering instead of infantry drills—"
"...my wife and I met at one of his 'Romanticism for Social Stability' seminars, remember? Best government propaganda ever, I got a husband out of it—"
A burst of laughter at that.
"...I'm just glad I can hold my girlfriend's hand in public without anyone saying it's frivolous. He keeps saying love is strategic. Fine by me—"
"...I lost someone in the old wars. I'm thankful he speaks their names during memorial broadcasts. Doesn't pretend they were just numbers—"
Snatches of thanks drifted past Sunbeam as he walked. He didn't catch every word, but he felt the intent like waves of warmth against his skin.
Close by, two young parents bounced a sleepy toddler between them. The child clutched a plush sun-emblem toy.
"I'm thankful she'll grow up thinking of uniforms as protectors, not predators," one parent said quietly. "She waved at the soldiers on the street earlier. They waved back."
"I'm thankful," the other replied, "that the General makes them wave. That he says a soldier's first duty is to calm a crying child."
A group of Sun Soldiers at a nearby table raised their mugs as Sunbeam passed.
"General!" one of them shouted cheerfully. "We're thankful you made tonight off-duty for us."
"Speak for yourself," another grinned. "I'm thankful for overtime dessert."
"You're thankful for everything with sugar," a third teased.
Sunbeam stopped by their table. "I'm thankful for all of you," he said simply. "But do not mistake rest for indulgence. A peaceful soldier is a stronger shield."
The soldiers slammed their fists on the table in a friendly salute, rattling cups and making nearby children giggle.
Behind the Scenes
While the plaza basked in warmth, the machine of logistics continued to hum behind it.
In a mobile operations tent at the edge of the square, Solardye stood at a central holo-table, the map of Lightwellmar glowing in thin orange lines. Icons of trucks, airships, and trams crawled across it like purposeful fireflies.
"Convoy from Solzenith has cleared the southern pass," an aide reported. "Extra grain and vegetable reserves en route to overflow tables."
"Excellent," Solardye replied. "Redirect half of it to the eastern districts. We have reports of families there who couldn't make it to the plaza. No household goes unvisited."
Solarpuff strode in, cheeks flushed from the cold air outside and the constant moving.
"Medical tents report mostly overfull stomachs and sprained ankles from dancing," she said. "I assume that counts as success."
"It counts as the ideal casualty list," Solardye answered.
Solarpuff smiled, then glanced at the map. "The Solafleur orchards insisted on sending more fruit than we requested. They said, and I quote, 'Tell the General that gratitude tastes better when it drips down your chin.'"
Solardye raised an eyebrow. "Is that a threat?"
"Only to napkins," she replied.
Sunsam burst in next, nearly tripping over the threshold, face glowing with sweat and joy.
"General's moving toward the northern stretch of tables," he said. "We're short on seating. People just keep arriving."
"Then we keep extending the feast," Solardye said. "Call Sunlance."
Sunlance's voice came through the comms line, calm and controlled even amid the background noise of music and chatter. "Already repurposing barricades as bench supports and turning supply crates into tables. No one will be turned away."
Solarpuff tilted her head. "Is that within regulation?"
Sunlance paused. "Today, the only regulation is that no person returns home unfed."
Solarpuff's expression softened. "Then we are fully compliant."
The Toast
Night settled at last, but the plaza did not darken. Lanterns brightened, strings of tiny suns blinked on along the edges of buildings, and the Radiant Citadel projected gentle auroras of orange and white across the sky.
At the center of Radiant Plaza, a raised platform had been set for the closing toast. Sun Soldiers and civilians mingled freely at its base. Camera-drones formed a wide halo, streaming the scene to every corner of Sollarisca.
General Sunbeam stepped onto the platform. At his side stood Solardye, Solarpuff, Sunsam, and Sunlance, uniforms immaculate despite hours of work. Their faces betrayed only tired satisfaction.
A hush rolled across the crowd like a breeze passing through tall grass. Conversations quieted, spoons clinked into bowls, children were lifted onto shoulders so they could see.
Sunbeam raised his glass, filled with a simple amber drink brewed from Lightwellmar's grains.
"My dear people," he began, "when I look at this plaza, I do not see a regime and its subjects. I see a family that stubbornly refuses to fracture."
He gestured to the tables surrounding them.
"I see bakers from Soltromberg who wake before sunrise so we can break bread in peace. I see farmers from Solafleur whose hands remain stained by soil even tonight, because they never stopped harvesting for us. I see elders who remember the old wars and still chose to believe in a kinder future. I see children who will grow up thinking that a day like this is normal, not miraculous."
He tilted his head toward the four officers beside him.
"I see commanders—Solardye and Solarpuff—who have learned that the highest use of military might is to move food, medicine, and shelter, not just weapons. I see elites—Sunsam and Sunlance—who understand that the sharpest spear is useless if it cannot protect a smile."
Sunsam grinned at the crowd and waved; Sunlance simply gave a small, respectful nod.
"Tonight," Sunbeam continued, "you have thanked me for peace, for policies, for reforms. I accept your gratitude not as praise, but as a reminder. Every 'thank you' is a promise I must keep. Every smile here is a life I am sworn to protect."
He let the silence stretch, the weight of his words settling over the plaza like a warm cloak.
"But hear this: I am equally thankful for you. For your patience when we fall short. For your courage when we ask you to change. For your stubborn insistence on kindness in world that often rewards cruelty. You are the true Solar Regime. I merely stand in front of it."
He lifted his glass higher, so the lantern light passed through it, sparkling.
"To Thanksgiving on Titanumas," he proclaimed. "To neighbors who become friends, to strangers who become family, to lovers who turn intimacy into a rebellion against loneliness. To every plate filled and every heart eased. May the warmth we share tonight outshine every shadow."
Across the plaza, thousands of glasses, cups, and mugs rose in answer.
"To General Sunbeam!" someone shouted instinctively.
But the General smiled and shook his head. "To all of us," he corrected gently.
The crowd adjusted as one, voices rolling like thunder made of joy.
"TO ALL OF US!"
They drank. Music swelled—bright, lively tunes from across the Solar Regime—and people surged back into motion: dancing between tables, refilling plates, leaning across benches to trade stories with newly met friends.
Above them, the lanterns rotated slowly, forming for a brief moment the stylized sun of the Solar crest, looking down on Solvanairebolis with approval.
Far beyond Lightwellmar, in distant states and islands, citizens watched the broadcast from their own smaller feasts: in cramped apartments, village squares, hospital wards, and frontier outposts. They echoed the toast in quieter voices, glasses raised toward screens that reflected Sunbeam's smile.
In the Radiant Citadel, standing at the edge of the balcony once more, General Sunbeam watched his people celebrate, the glow of lanterns reflected in his orange eyes.
"For this," he murmured to himself, "I would face a thousand wars...and make sure none of them ever reach you."
Behind him, Solardye, Solarpuff, Sunsam, and Sunlance stood in respectful silence, sharing the same view, the same exhaustion, the same quiet, blazing pride.
Thanksgiving on Titanumas had begun—and in the Solar Regime of Sollarisca, it was less a holiday and more a vow, renewed under the gentle watch of twin suns and a sky full of lanterns.
Night did not end Thanksgiving in Solvanairebolis. It only reshaped it.
By the time the last tables in Radiant Plaza were being folded away, the city had slipped into that comfortable half-tired glow after a festival: trams humming a little slower, lanterns dimmed to a warm pulse, the smell of roasted spices lingering in alleyways like a memory.
Sunbeam walked down from the Radiant Citadel without an escort formation this time—no marching rows, no ceremonial fanfare. Just him in his slightly loosened orange uniform, cap under his arm, medals still on because his staff had argued he was "never off-duty." He had won one small victory, at least: he had insisted that tonight he was not "Master Emperor Lord/General." He was just Sunbeam, going out with friends.
Behind him came a cluster of elites and commanders in various states of imperfect formality. Sunsam and Sunlance, of course, but also Sunsword, Sunnon, Sunleaf, and Sunsuna walking shoulder to shoulder, chatting over each other.
"You know," Sunsam said, hands in his pockets, "if anyone sees this many elites and Supreme Commanders walking together down one street, they're going to think a coup is happening."
"If a coup involves dessert," Sunsuna replied, "I fully support it."
Sunsword laughed, nudging her shoulder with his. "We promised each other no more sword fights on holidays."
"Who said anything about sword fights?" she shot back. "I'm challenging you to a dessert-eating duel. Loser does the dishes."
Sunnon drifted along beside them, head tipped back, admiring the lantern strings overhead. "Can we duel somewhere with good coffee? If I fall, I want to fall into a pile of pastry."
Sunleaf hugged her coat tighter around herself. "You all talk like the General hasn't already booked the entire district."
All eyes slid toward Sunbeam.
He smiled, not denying it.
Late-Night Eateries
The Lantern Row district of Solvanairebolis was still buzzing. Street vendors wiped down surfaces and refilled sauce bottles; small eateries glowed like miniature suns along the cobblestone street. When Sunbeam and his group turned the corner, conversations stuttered for a moment, then resumed with a delighted ripple. No one had expected to see the General walking casually past neon menus.
A host from Twin Dawn Grill nearly dropped his tablet.
"G–General Sunbeam! Sir! Honored! Please, we—"
Sunbeam lifted a hand gently. "Tonight I'm just another hungry soul. Do you have room for a... moderately sized group?"
The host looked over his shoulder at the already packed tables, then back at the line of elites and commanders behind Sunbeam, then swallowed.
"We... might move a few things around."
Within minutes, the staff had rearranged half the restaurant. Soldiers and civilians ate side by side, pulled into the same long tables. A teenager who had been about to leave with a takeaway box found herself suddenly sitting two seats away from Sunsam.
At the center, Sunbeam sat with his friends. Sunsword and Sunsuna took the spots directly across from him, crowded together like a mirror image: his hair tied back, her bangs falling into her eyes, both of them with that slightly feral look of competitive gamers forced to socialize.
"You know people call you the Solar Regime's Sword Art Online couple, right?" Sunnon said, sipping a fruity drink.
"We are absolutely not trapped in a death game," Sunsuna retorted.
Sunsword leaned in, grinning. "Yet."
Sunleaf rolled her eyes. "If you two get transported into some virtual battlefield, please leave a note. We'll send Sunwis to rescue you with a spreadsheet."
That earned a wave of laughter all the way down the table.
Plates arrived in waves: grilled lake-fish from Solquaria Nexus, sizzling skewers of seasoned vegetables, stacks of orange-glazed bread, bowls of noodles shimmering with saffron broth. Sunbeam dug in like everyone else, elbows on the table, recounting small stories from his youth in a way he rarely did in official broadcasts.
"...so there I was," he said, "thirteen years old, convinced I would impress the girl I liked by jumping off the school roof with a homemade glider."
Sunsam nearly choked on his drink. "Sir!"
Sunsuna stared. "You did what?"
"It worked," Sunbeam said mildly. "For three seconds. Then I landed in the principal's ornamental pond."
"What about the girl?" Sunleaf asked, eyes sparkling.
"She became our first Minister of Safety," Sunbeam replied. "Apparently I inspired her career."
The table erupted.
Between jokes, snatches of quieter conversation surfaced.
"You know, sir," Sunnon said at one point, pushing her empty plate aside, "this is the first time I've eaten with so many other elites without checking casualty reports every ten minutes."
Sunsword nodded, expression softening. "Feels...normal. In a good way. Like we're allowed to be people."
Sunbeam's gaze lingered on them, gentle. "You are people. Titles can sit on the shelf for one night."
Sunsuna tilted her head. "Just one?"
"For tonight," he said. "Tomorrow, we negotiate for more."
Lantern Park
After the meal, they spilled out into Aurora Grove Park, a wide green space carved into the city's heart. The festival lanterns had migrated here as if following the crowd, hanging from trees and hovering above the pond, their reflections trembling on the water.
Couples and families walked arm in arm along the paths. Some recognized Sunbeam and bowed; others simply waved, as if he were a neighbor.
Sunsword slipped his fingers through Sunsuna's almost unconsciously. Sunnon and Sunleaf walked side by side, sharing a paper cup of hot citrus tea.
"Look at them," Sunleaf murmured, watching a group of teenagers take selfies under the lantern arch. "Nobody's thinking about tomorrow's drills. They're just... alive."
"Feels illegal," Sunnon said softly.
"It is not illegal," Sunbeam replied, stepping up beside them. "It is the point."
They laughed.
He let his gaze wander. Here and there he noticed loners on benches: a woman scrolling idly on her tablet, a man staring at the pond with headphones in, an elderly person feeding imaginary fish with crumbs. No one was bothering them, but no one was with them either.
Sunbeam felt a familiar ache.
"We have reduced violence," he said quietly, more to himself than to the others. "We have rebuilt cities. But loneliness still hides in the corners."
Sunsam, walking a short distance behind, heard him. "We can't order people to love, sir."
"I know," Sunbeam said. "But we can build a world where it's easier to find each other."
Lantern light painted soft gold on his features as he watched Sunsword and Sunsuna laughing together, Sunnon bumping shoulders with Sunleaf to make her spill tea and squeal. That warmth, that unguarded closeness—that was what he wanted for all of Sollarisca.
The idea that had been simmering in his mind for months finally clicked into shape.
"Tomorrow," he said, more firmly now, "we start something new."
Sunbeam's House by the Sea
Later that night, along the coast beyond Solvanairebolis, Sunbeam's personal residence glowed like a lantern of its own.
The estate wasn't ostentatious, just wide and open, built of pale stone and warm wood, with huge windows that looked out over a dark, breathing sea. A large pool curved toward a sunken hot tub, and beyond that, down a short path, the sand stretched out to meet the waves.
The party here was less public, more chaotic.
Elites and Supreme Commanders had traded uniforms for casual clothes and swimwear: bright shorts, loose shirts, simple dresses. Laughter clung to the air as tightly as the scent of salt and citrus.
Sunsam cannonballed into the pool, sending a wave that nearly swallowed Sunlance, who had insisted on entering the water with military precision.
"Sergeant!" Sunlance sputtered as water ran down his usually stoic face. "You will pay for that."
"Catch me if you can, sir!" Sunsam shouted, darting away.
Sunsword and Sunsuna floated together near the edge of the hot tub, each with a glass of light orange cocktail. Their legs bumped occasionally under the water. Every time someone teased them, they pretended utter innocence.
Nearby, Sunnon and Sunleaf sat on the edge of the pool, feet kicking in the water, sharing jokes about who had the worst tan lines.
Music drifted from speakers tucked discreetly among the potted plants—upbeat, relaxed, the kind of songs that made people sway without realizing.
Off to one side of the patio, under the shade of a pergola wrapped in fairy lights, sat Sunwis and Sunwise. Laptops open, glasses on the tips of their noses, they looked like they had accidentally wandered into the wrong universe: surrounded by splashes and shrieks, yet wrapped in a cocoon of concentrated typing.
Sunwis muttered as his fingers danced across the keys. "Thanksgiving Feast: Radiant Plaza. Attendance estimates... cross-referenced with transport logs... We need a separate section for anecdotal gratitude metrics."
Sunwise nodded without looking up. "Also a chapter on informal interpersonal bonding among elites. The General will want data on whether these gatherings correlate with morale scores."
"You're both supposed to be relaxing," a dripping Sunsam said as he passed by, tossing a towel around his shoulders.
"We are relaxed," Sunwise replied calmly. "We're using our favorite fonts."
Sunsam just sighed and walked away, grinning.
On the upper deck balcony, two figures stood at a tall table: Sunbond and SunM.
Sunbond's suit was sharp even without the full uniform regalia, his tie a shade darker than his orange shirt. SunM, by contrast, had her hair loosely tied, but her eyes carried the weight of a dozen strategic reassessments.
Between them sat a bottle of deep amber orange wine and two elegant glasses.
"Tell me honestly," SunM said, swirling her drink, voice as precise as a blade, "how dangerous is it to let this many high-ranking officers drink in the same place?"
Sunbond smiled faintly. "On the scale of threats, I consider it safer than leaving them alone with their thoughts."
"That's a very 'Sunbond' answer," she replied. "You sound like you're auditioning for an espionage drama."
"Occupational hazard," he said, taking a measured sip. "Our General wants to preserve humanity, emotionally as well as physically. Social risk is now part of national defense."
SunM glanced down at the pool, where Sunsword was now attempting to teach Sunnon and Sunleaf some kind of synchronized victory pose.
"He is trying to change the soul of a continent," she murmured. "Not just its laws."
"That's why you stay," Sunbond observed.
She didn't deny it. Instead, she tipped her glass toward the beach.
"Speaking of souls."
A Quiet Bench
Down by the sand, away from the brightest lights, Sunbeam sat on a simple wooden bench facing the sea.
He had slipped out of his jacket entirely now, shirt sleeves rolled up, collar undone. His medals were somewhere inside the house, forgotten for the moment. A half-finished glass of mild orange wine sat beside him, untouched for several minutes.
He could still hear the party—bursts of laughter, a splash, a shout of "you cheated!" from Sunsuna, a mock-indignant "strategy is not cheating!" from Sunsword. Sunwis' and Sunwise's keyboard clacks came faintly, like distant rain.
But here, with the waves edging closer and retreating again, everything felt slower.
Sunlance approached silently, bare feet sinking into the cool sand.
"Sir," he said quietly, "your presence is requested near the hot tub. Sunsam insists that 'a true celebration requires the General to at least pretend to relax.' His words."
Sunbeam smiled without looking up. "I am relaxing. Look."
He stretched his legs out, wiggling his toes slightly in the sand.
Sunlance huffed something that might, in a less disciplined man, have been a laugh. "You are thinking about policy."
"I am thinking about people," Sunbeam corrected. "Policies come later."
He nodded toward the glow of the house.
"Look at them. Some have lost entire families to war. Some grew up with nothing but drills and battlefield simulations. Tonight they laugh like children. That is... fragile. I want it to be normal."
"You cannot legislate happiness," Sunlance said, though his tone was gentle.
"No," Sunbeam agreed. "But I can plant lanterns along the paths people walk. Make it easier for them to bump into each other. Easier to say hello instead of staying alone."
He glanced up at his Supreme Commander.
"Tomorrow, I'm going to make an announcement. I will need you at my side."
Sunlance bowed his head. "Always, sir."
"Tonight," Sunbeam added, "you are allowed to call me 'Sunbeam' when no one is listening."
Sunlance hesitated, then tried it quietly. "...Sunbeam."
The name sounded different without the title, like a cherished nickname instead of a rank.
Sunbeam's smile widened. "See? Even that is a step."
He stood, brushing sand from his trousers, and looked back at the glowing house where his elites and commanders were turning trauma into splashes and jokes.
"Let's go join them," he said. "Tomorrow we work. Tonight... we remember why."
The Morning After
The next day, Sollarisca woke to news alerts.
Every major channel cut to the same image: General Sunbeam standing at a podium in a smaller, more intimate hall than the grand broadcast chamber. Behind him, instead of stern flags and military insignia, hung a backdrop depicting lanterns, intertwined hands, and the faint outline of a city skyline at dawn.
Sunlance, Solardye, Solarpuff, Sunbond, and SunM stood to one side; Sunsword, Sunsuna, Sunnon, Sunleaf, Sunwis, and Sunwise were scattered among other elites in the front rows, some with discreet dark circles under their eyes from too little sleep and too much laughing.
The cameras focused on Sunbeam's face. He looked rested, but there was a new intensity in his gaze—a quiet fire.
"People of Sollarisca," he began, "yesterday we celebrated Thanksgiving. We shared food, stories, and the simple joy of being alive together."
Images from the previous day flashed across screens: Radiant Plaza filled with tables, the night-time feast, small moments of gratitude caught on camera.
"Today," Sunbeam continued, "I want to speak about those who were not in the middle of the crowd."
He raised a hand slightly.
"When I walked through Aurora Grove Park last night, I saw laughter—but I also saw people sitting alone on benches, listening from a distance. I saw faces at windows watching the feast from afar. I know there are citizens who look at gatherings and think: 'That is not for me. I do not belong. No one would miss me if I stayed home.'"
He let the silence breathe.
"I refuse to accept that."
His voice remained gentle, but steel threaded through it.
"The Solar Regime was not built so that some would shine and others would sit forever in shadow. Our prosperity is not complete as long as even one person feels invisible in a crowd."
Behind him, Sunwis and Sunwise took notes at astonishing speed.
"So today," Sunbeam said, "I reaffirm two pillars of our society: Pro-Socialism and Romanticism."
Screens displayed clean graphics: circles of people connecting, hearts woven into community patterns.
"By Pro-Socialism," he explained, "I do not mean forced collectivism. I mean a deliberate, compassionate effort to help each person find their place among others—friends, colleagues, neighbors, partners. I mean cities designed with plazas instead of walls, schedules that allow for conversation instead of endless exhaustion, public events where entry is not a privilege but a promise."
"And by Romanticism," he went on, "I mean honoring love in all its forms between consenting adults—whether it leads to partnership, family, or simply the healing of a lonely heart. I will not stand by while isolation eats away at our people from the inside. We fight wars to keep you safe from external threats. Now we will also fight the quiet war against loneliness."
He gestured, and the screens shifted to show plans: cozy community centers, parks redesigned with more shared seating, small cafés subsidized to host social nights.
"Effective immediately," Sunbeam announced, "we are launching the Sunrise Connection Initiative."
A murmur went through the hall.
"This initiative includes:
Lantern Nights in every major city: weekly, open-air gatherings with music, food, and structured activities for meeting new people.
Speed-friendship and speed-dating programs, guided by counselors and volunteers, for those who wish to seek companionship but lack the confidence or opportunity.
Community Houses in every district—places where no one needs a reason to stop by, where games, discussions, and shared meals are available at low or no cost.
A network of matchmaking and support services staffed by professionals who will respect your boundaries and privacy while helping you find people whose hearts beat at a rhythm similar to your own."
Cameras cut briefly to Sunsword and Sunsuna. She squeezed his hand; he tried to look composed and failed, grinning instead.
Sunbeam continued.
"No one will be forced into relationships. No one will be shamed for preferring solitude. But no one will be allowed to disappear unnoticed. If you want friends, we will help you find them. If you seek romance, we will open doors, not close them. If you simply want to sit in a room where other people are breathing the same air and laughing at the same jokes, we will make that room."
He placed both hands on the podium.
"This is not frivolous. This is national preservation. A people that forgets how to love, how to hold hands, how to laugh in parks and splash one another in pools... that people is already half-defeated, even in perfect peace."
Behind him, SunM watched with that sharp, measuring gaze of hers. Sunbond studied the crowd as if assessing a new mission profile. Sunwis and Sunwise were already drafting frameworks for tracking the initiative's impact, turning warmth into data not to contain it, but to help it grow.
Sunbeam's voice softened once more.
"To those who feel like outcasts," he said, "to those who spend evenings alone with only the sound of your own thoughts: you are seen. You are not a problem to fix; you are a person to welcome. If shyness, fear, or past hurt holds you back, we will move gently. But we will not forget you."
He smiled, the kind of smile the people of Sollarisca had come to trust.
"Thanksgiving was not a single day. It was the first step. From this moment on, we move toward a Solar Regime where no one eats alone by necessity, where no one believes they are unworthy of touch, company, or love."
He straightened.
"For the sake of our future, for the preservation of humanity on Titanumas, I choose policies that protect not only our borders, but our hearts."
He lifted his hand in a small, open gesture—less a salute, more an invitation.
"Walk with me," he said. "Meet each other. Let us fill this world with friendships and romances so abundant that loneliness has nowhere left to live."
The broadcast ended with the symbol of the Solar Regime fading into a simple image: two hands reaching across a small gap, fingers about to touch, framed by twin suns.
In homes, cafés, barracks, and quiet apartments, people stared at their screens for a moment.
Then, slowly, they began to message friends, check the new Lantern Night schedules, sign up for Sunrise Connection events, or simply step outside for a walk, wondering who they might bump into on the way.
And somewhere in Solvanairebolis, General Sunbeam sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up again, working with Sunwis, Sunwise, Sunbond, SunM, and the others to turn promise into practice—grateful that last night, for a little while, he had not been a distant symbol, but just a man laughing in the lantern light with his friends.
Days passed in a blur of meetings, drafts, and late-night revisions. Schedules were rewritten, plazas earmarked for Lantern Nights, counseling teams assembled. The Sunrise Connection Initiative was no longer a speech; it was a machine slowly coming to life.
Sunbeam watched it all with quiet satisfaction, but the lines of fatigue had begun to deepen around his eyes.
"You are allowed," Solarpuff remarked one evening as she slid a fresh report onto his desk, "to enjoy the world you are building instead of just supervising it."
Solardye nodded beside her. "Morale statistics suggest that leaders who take time to celebrate with their teams produce more sustainable reforms."
"That sounds suspiciously like an agenda," Sunbeam said.
"It is," Solarstride replied, leaning in the doorway with his usual easy posture. "We're invoking it."
Solarstorm stepped up behind him. "All Supreme Commanders are in agreement. That almost never happens. You should be afraid."
Solarstream folded his arms. "We propose a follow-up Thanksgiving. Smaller. Focused. For the people who spent the first holiday making sure everyone else was happy."
Solardale, ever the quiet planner, slid a holotablet across to Sunbeam. On it, a simple image: the same beach by his residence, lit by lanterns, ringed with tables and grills.
"A gratitude gathering," Solardale said. "For the command staff and elites who worked through the holiday. You led us through Radiant Plaza. Let us lead this one."
Sunbeam looked from face to face—Solardye's precise calm, Solardale's steady patience, Solarstream's restless energy, Solarstride's grounded ease, Solarstorm's storm-contained-in-a-bottle intensity, Solarpuff's determined warmth.
"You're cornering me with kindness," he murmured.
"Yes," Solarpuff replied. "Consider it strategic."
He smiled at last. "Very well. One more Thanksgiving."
Thanksgiving by the Sea
The second celebration unfolded at the shore like a dream that had learned from the first.
The beach below Sunbeam's residence was transformed: lanterns strung between tall poles, casting soft circles of orange light onto the sand; long buffet tables loaded with food; portable speakers buried cleverly among dunes, playing relaxed music under the hiss of the waves. Every towel, umbrella, and folding chair had been dyed or draped in bright, solar orange, turning the shoreline into a warm glowing stripe against the dark sea.
The Supreme Commanders had taken their roles seriously.
Solardye oversaw logistics, directing the flow of dishes and drink coolers with the same precision he used for troop movements.
"Grilled vegetables to the left table, seafood to the right, bread in the middle. We will not repeat last year's 'carbohydrate bottleneck,'" he declared, pointing as Sunbrass and Sunalain hauled crates past him, laughing.
Titanumas Character Alias Codex...
Solardale had coordinated the infrastructure: portable lights, temporary decking for the grill stations, a safe perimeter. Solarstream had handled transportation, ensuring shuttles from Solvanairebolis arrived in waves so no one had to worry about driving back sleepy and sun-dazed.
Solarstride managed activities and safety, marking swim zones with glowing floats and scattering first-aid stations along the sand. Solarstorm, of course, had volunteered to supervise the fireworks later, grinning a little too eagerly whenever explosives were mentioned.
Solarpuff moved everywhere at once, clipboard forgotten in favor of a drink in one hand and a whistle in the other, alternately organizing and dragging people into games.
The elites had turned out in force.
Sunbrass and Sunrufus worked a grill together, debating seasoning ratios like statesmen arguing policy. Sunfelix juggled drink orders behind a makeshift bar while Sunmarcus and Sunraiko stacked chilled bottles into tubs of ice. Sunkazuto and Suntoby ran a "volleyball diplomacy" match, insisting that every missed ball required a teammate to shout one thing they appreciated about someone else.
Sunlass, in a sleek orange one-piece and mirrored shades, organized a sandcastle-building contest so elaborate that engineers began sketching structural supports. Sunivy and Sunterra handled the dessert table; Sunlindsey took charge of music playlists, vetoing anything "too tragic for a beach." Sunliz and Sunnica set up lanterns in intricate patterns, while Sunleaf directed the placement of potted sunflowers along the walkways.
Even Sunwis and Sunwise had been coaxed away from their laptops—mostly. They sat at a small table under a parasol with thin tablets, occasionally inputting notes between bites of grilled fish.
"We're only logging qualitative morale data," Sunwise insisted as Sunsam gave them a look. "Very relaxed."
"You added a column for 'average laughter volume over time,'" Sunsam pointed out.
"Exactly," Sunwis replied. "Science."
The Supreme Commanders, stripped of their heavy uniforms, looked almost like ordinary citizens. Solardye's beach shorts were crisply pressed; Solardale wore a loose shirt that somehow still gave off "structural integrity" energy. Solarstream had already started a race along the shoreline. Solarstride refereed, while Solarstorm and Solarpuff argued over which team was cheating more creatively.
Sunbeam watched it all from the edge of the gathering, sandals in hand, feet buried in cool sand. His own swimwear was simple: bright orange trunks and a light open shirt, sleeves rolled up. His hair caught the lantern light, matching the glow of the lamps and the embers of the grills.
He wandered from station to station, exchanging small jokes, letting his commanders drag him into group photos, accepting plates piled high by enthusiastic elites.
"General!" Sunbrass called at one point. "Try this marinade. We used citrus from Solafleur and a secret ratio of spices."
"The secret ratio," Sunrufus whispered conspiratorially, "is 'too much of everything.'"
Sunbeam tasted the grilled skewer and laughed. "This is either brilliant or treasonous. I cannot decide which."
"Both," Sunbrass said proudly.
Later, he found himself in the middle of a ring of towels, listening as Sunscar told exaggerated battlefield stories with Sunface providing ridiculous sound effects. Sungun and Sunklein argued about which of them had the more embarrassing training mishaps, while Suncliff and Sunchi took bets with Sunmusic about how long it would take Solarstream to challenge the waves to a duel.
The sound of water, crackling grills, and layered conversations blended into one vast, living heartbeat.
And yet, after a while, Sunbeam drifted gently away from the brightest center of the celebration.
Wrapped in Orange
He settled on a quieter stretch of sand where the lanterns thinned and the stars grew stronger. The sea whispered in, whispered out again. From here, he could see the whole scene: orange-glowing beach, moving silhouettes, flickers of laughter.
He loved them, all of them, with a fierce, protective tenderness. But he had spent so long being the center of gravity that sometimes stepping into the edge felt like a relief.
He folded his arms around his knees and let his thoughts wander—to the Sunrise Connection Initiative, to Radiant Plaza, to the lonely faces on park benches, to the countless citizens he would never meet but still wanted to shelter.
Footsteps rustled in the sand behind him.
"Found him," a familiar voice whispered.
"Of course you did," another answered, equally familiar. "He glows."
Sunsword and Sunsuna came into view, both in solid orange swimwear—his in the form of simple shorts with a faint sun-emblem on the waistband, hers a two-piece set with a short, fluttering skirt. Their hair was still damp from the ocean, droplets catching the lantern light.
"You know," Sunsuna said, hands on her hips, "for a man who just launched an entire initiative about keeping people from being lonely, you're doing a suspiciously good impression of a beached hermit."
Sunbeam blinked. "I'm not hiding. I'm... appreciating from a distance."
Sunsword snorted softly and sat down on his right, close enough that their shoulders brushed. "Well, now you're appreciating from a distance with company."
Sunsuna dropped onto his left, plopping down in the sand with all the grace of a thrown pillow. Without ceremony, she wrapped her arm through his.
"You don't get to be the only one who makes sure nobody sits alone," she said. "That's hypocrisy."
Sunbeam felt the warmth of their presence like a physical blanket. Sunsword rested his forearms on his knees, gaze on the waves; Sunsuna leaned lightly against Sunbeam's side, toes tracing idle patterns in the sand.
For a moment he didn't trust his voice. The corner of his mouth tugged upward, but his eyes pricked.
"You two..." he began, then stopped, clearing his throat. "You know I am responsible for the entire Solar Regime."
"Yes," Sunsword said. "Which is why you need people responsible for you."
Sunsuna squeezed his arm. "Consider us your personal anti-loneliness unit."
He laughed, color rising faintly in his cheeks. "You make it sound like a formal division."
"Give Sunwis five minutes, he'll make a logo," Sunsword replied.
They sat together in comfortable silence, watching the lines of lanterns sway, listening to distant shouts as Solarstorm unveiled some impressive but mercifully controlled pyrotechnics. From here, the party looked less like a command gathering and more like a simple community at play.
Sunbeam let his head tilt slightly until it almost, not quite, rested against Sunsword's. Sunsuna hummed some idle melody under her breath, content.
For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to feel not just responsible, but held.
Sunbeam's Private Messages
Long after the last fireworks faded and the waves smoothed the footprints from the shore, the house had quieted.
Sunbeam showered, changed into a soft orange t-shirt and loose lounge pants, and stepped into his bedroom. The room was warmly lit, walls hung with framed photos: Radiant Plaza at sunrise, a candid shot of Lady Moonbeam laughing in a rainstorm on Lunna, a younger Sunbeam and Starbeam attempting to lift a too-big trophy together.
He sat on the edge of his bed, back resting against the headboard, and picked up his phone.
The screen lit his face as he opened a private, encrypted chat labeled with a simple crescent-moon icon and the name:
Lady Moonbeam
He hesitated for a heartbeat, then began to type, thumbs moving with the ease of practiced confession.
Sunbeam:
Good evening, my Moon.
It has been a very long Thanksgiving.
He paused, smiled, and continued.
We filled Radiant Plaza, just as I wrote in the last report—more people than I imagined. Children stole extra bread, elders cried over simple songs.
Today, I announced the Sunrise Connection Initiative. I think you would have liked the graphics. Sunwis put too many circles in them; you would have told him to add stars.
He attached a small photo from the broadcast backdrop—lanterns, intertwined hands, faint city outline.
After the speech, the Supreme Commanders conspired against me and dragged me to the beach for another Thanksgiving.
They called it "gratitude maintenance."
I called it "being ambushed with grilled vegetables."
He snorted softly at his own message and kept going.
The elites were ridiculous and wonderful. Sunbrass tried to invent a new national marinade. Sunlass nearly built a sandcastle with its own zoning laws. Sunsam soaked half the command staff with a single cannonball.
Sunsword and Sunsuna sat with me when I slipped away to stare at the sea. They refused to let me brood alone. You would have approved. You always said I was terrible at letting myself be cared for.
He stared at that last line for a moment, feeling the echo of her voice in his memory.
Outside, the sea continued its infinite breathing. Inside, the faint hum of the house systems was the only sound.
He added:
I spoke today about outcasts, about loneliness. I meant every word.
But sitting between them on the sand, I realized something else: even the brightest sun needs someone to notice when it flickers.
Thank you for being the first person who ever did that for me.
His fingers hovered, then he added one more line, honest and simple.
I miss you. The lanterns here were beautiful, but they do not shine like you do over Lunna.
He attached a final image: the view from his quiet stretch of beach, lanterns lining the shore, two figures—Sunsword and Sunsuna—blurred in the distance, the sea a dark, gentle band beyond them.
Then he hit send.
The message status shifted: Delivered to Lunna.
He knew the time difference meant she might not see it for a while. Maybe she was in counsel, or walking among her own people under the silver glow of Lunar lanterns. Maybe she was sleeping.
That was all right.
He set the phone on the nightstand, feeling lighter.
Tomorrow there would be more meetings, more revisions, more policy. The Sunrise Connection Initiative would need tending. Lantern Nights had to be scheduled carefully, counselors trained, community houses staffed.
But tonight, for a rare, precious moment, General Sunbeam—Master Emperor Lord of the Solar Regime—let himself simply be Sunbeam: a tired, grateful man who had laughed on the beach with his friends, and who had just written the closest thing he had to a diary, addressed to the one who held his heart across the sea.
As he closed his eyes, the echoes of the day washed over him: the noise of Radiant Plaza, the chatter in Lantern Row, the hush of Aurora Grove Park, the splashes and fireworks by the sea, the soft ping of a message sent.
Sollarisca slept under twin moons and fading lanterns.
And in his room overlooking the dark, steady water, Sunbeam slept too—dreaming not of war or crisis, but of crowded tables, joined hands, and a future where no one, not even a General, had to face the night alone.
Side Story: Solardye's Thanksgiving Route
Morning in Solvanairebolis came wrapped in a soft fog of sea mist and bakery steam. The day after Sunbeam's big address, the city was still humming about Lantern Nights and the Sunrise Connection Initiative.
Solardye watched the headlines scroll past on an office holo-screen:
SUNRISE CONNECTION ROLLS OUT
LANTERN NIGHTS SCHEDULED ACROSS SOLLARISCA
NO ONE EATS ALONE – GENERAL SUNBEAM'S PROMISE
He adjusted his glasses with a fingertip, expression thoughtful and fond.
"Your approval ratings are blinding, my General," he murmured to the empty room. "Now the rest of us have to keep up."
On his desk lay a neat stack of travel itineraries.
Lightwellmar State alone could have consumed his entire schedule, but Solardye had insisted on a wider route—an on-the-ground inspection of how the new programs and post-Thanksgiving mood were spreading through the Solar Regime.
A chime sounded at his door.
"Enter," he called.
The door slid aside to reveal Solarpuff, Solarstream, and Solarstride standing in an almost suspiciously casual cluster.
"Ready for your slice-of-life spin-off episode?" Solarpuff asked, waving a tablet. "Title suggestion: 'Logistics Commander Goes on a Feelings Tour.'"
Solarstream snorted. "I'd watch that."
Solarstride folded his arms, smiling. "You're the only one of us who insists on inspecting every train schedule personally. The people deserve to see the face behind all the timetables."
Solardye sighed in theatrical defeat. "Very well. But if this becomes a musical episode, I resign."
"Noted," Solarpuff said. "We'll save the musical for Solarstorm."
Episode I: Bread and Lanterns – Soltromberg, Lightwellmar State
The special train slid into Soltromberg Station under an arch of orange banners, steam curling upward into a sky still holding the pale color of early morning. Solardye stepped out in his crisp, travel-weight uniform—lighter fabric, same immaculate lines.
A small crowd waited on the platform: local officials, Sun Soldiers, and a handful of elites already in rolled-up sleeves and aprons.
Sunbrass was there, of course, waving one flour-dusted hand. Beside him, Sunlass adjusted an orange bandanna, and Sunflint, Sunamber, and Sunrose clustered around crates of fresh bread.
"Commander!" Sunbrass called. "You're just in time for the taste test."
Solardye glanced at the towering stacks of loaves. "I was under the impression we were feeding a small city, not a dragon."
"Same thing," Sunflint muttered as he hefted another tray.
They led him through Soltromberg's central square, now half-converted into a Lantern Night preview. Strings of lanterns were going up between bakery balconies. Volunteer stations were already setting out long tables for weekly community breakfasts—part of the Sunrise Connection plan.
Sunrose, carrying a basket of rolls, spoke up shyly. "We're scheduling early-morning socials twice a week, sir. People who start shifts at dawn can still meet neighbors before work."
Sunlass added, "We're staggering times so night-shift workers aren't left out. And Sunivy wants to set up a swap table—books, recipes, letters."
Solardye listened carefully, asking precise questions, offering small adjustments—more seating near tram stops, a rotating volunteer roster so the hosts didn't burn out. But more than anything, he simply watched.
By mid-morning, the square was full of people sitting with strangers, trading jam jars and stories. A group of children attempted to braid a lantern line into a giant sun emblem. Sunamber and Sunquill played an impromptu tune on borrowed instruments, and someone laughed, "This feels like a festival and it's only Tuesday."
Solardye made a note on his tablet: "Pilot success. Atmosphere: warm. High laughter density."
He allowed himself a small smile. "The General will be pleased."
Episode II: Orchard Conversations – Solafleur State
Next stop: Solafleur, all rolling hills and perfume-heavy air.
Here, the Sunrise Connection Initiative had taken on a distinctly floral flavor. Solterra and Sunivy guided Solardye through groves hung with lanterns and handwritten notes tied to branches with orange ribbon.
"Lantern Nights here double as 'wish walks,'" Sunterra explained, brushing hair from her face. "People can write hopes—friendship, healing, romance—and tie them to the trees. No names required."
Sunleaf, who had joined the route here, added, "We're also arranging 'harvest mixers.' People pick fruit together and share a meal at the end. It's easier to talk when hands are busy."
Solardye watched a group of elders teaching teenagers how to spot the ripest fruit; further along, two strangers compared the handwriting on their wish tags and ended up laughing over similar dreams of starting bookstores.
He inhaled deeply. The air tasted of citrus and possibility.
"You are weaponizing agriculture for emotional health," he observed.
"Is that a complaint?" Sunleaf asked.
"It is a compliment," he said. "Efficiency and tenderness. The General's favorite combination."
Episode III: Piers and Shared Horizons – Solquaria Nexus
At Solquaria Nexus, the sea greeted them again, this time lapping at the feet of high piers lit with soft orange globes. Fishing crews, students, and retired sailors mingled along the boardwalks.
Here, Lantern Nights meant Pier Evenings: long communal tables set along the docks, hot soup and grilled fish served family-style while musicians played and storytellers took turns at an open mic.
Sunwave and Sunmarin walked beside Solardye, pointing out details.
"We've assigned 'table hosts,'" Sunwave said. "Volunteers trained to notice anyone sitting alone and gently draw them into conversation."
Sunmarin added, "We also set up 'quiet corners' for those who want company but not constant talking. Just shared space, shared horizon."
Solardye watched as a young man in worn work clothes hesitated at the edge of a table. A table host—Sunhikari—smiled and slid a bowl of soup toward the empty spot beside her, patting the bench. Slowly, the man sat, shoulders easing as others made room.
Another note went into his tablet: "Initiative adapting well to local culture. Sea as metaphor for shared future—strong symbolic resonance."
He almost chuckled at himself. "I'm even starting to sound like Sunwis."
The Surprise Plan
By the time Solardye's inspection route looped back to Solvanairebolis, a quiet conspiracy had taken shape.
In each state, as he checked logistics and spoke with local elites, he heard the same thing:
"Is the General resting?"
"Does Sunbeam ever stop?"
"He looked tired in the broadcast..."
Solardye deflected gently, but he carried the concern with him. On the return train, he opened a private group chat with the other Supreme Commanders and several trusted elites:
Solardye:
Proposal – coordinated "gratitude intervention" for the General.
Objective: enforce rest, demonstrate he is not alone in carrying this initiative.
Replies came fast.
Solarpuff: I've been waiting my whole life for this mission.
Solarstream: Operation Tuck-In.
Solarstride: We will need blankets. And tea.
Solarstorm: And fireworks.
Solardale: No fireworks inside the Citadel.
Sunlass: I can handle snacks and soft music.
Sunleaf: I'll bring herbal tea – anti-overthinking blend.
Solardye smiled down at the growing thread.
Solardye:
Final phase – relaxation support. Gentle, non-embarrassing.
We remind him he is human, not just a sun-icon.
Sunsuna: Leave that to us.
Sunsword: We can keep things light. No dramatic ambushes.
Sunnon: Can I bring sleepy-time storytelling?
Sunbrass: Warm towels?
Sunivy: Soft lighting and plants in his office?
The plan solidified.
"Operation Mandatory Rest"
Back in Solvanairebolis, evening draped the Radiant Citadel in slow amber.
In his office, Sunbeam was once again hunched over reports—Lantern Night feedback, infrastructure repair plans, letters from citizens. The glow of his desk lamp painted tired shadows under his eyes.
A chime sounded at his door.
"Enter," he called, not looking up.
The door slid open. Soft footsteps, several of them, crossed the threshold.
"General," Solardye said, voice unusually formal for this hour. "We request a moment of your time."
Sunbeam glanced up—and blinked.
All six Supreme Commanders stood there, dressed not in full uniform but in relaxed orange loungewear. Behind them clustered a handful of elites—Sunsword, Sunsuna, Sunleaf, Sunnon, Sunlass, Sunivy, Sunbrass, Sunhikari, and more—all with determined, mischievous expressions.
"...Am I being deposed?" Sunbeam asked mildly.
Solarstream grinned. "You are being sat down."
Solarstride stepped forward, holding a folded blanket. "With respect, sir, you are in violation of your own initiative. You are working alone while others gather."
Solarpuff added, "You gave everyone else emotionally healthy Lantern Nights. You get one too."
Sunbeam opened his mouth to protest, but Solardye raised a hand.
"Logistics have been arranged," he said. "Your schedule for the next two hours is now: sit, breathe, accept care."
Sunnon, already pulling a plush chair out from the wall, gestured toward it. "Seat of Honor, General. No paperwork allowed."
Laughter rippled around the room. The mood wasn't mutinous; it was conspiratorial in the gentlest way.
Slowly, Sunbeam stood. "All right," he said. "But if anyone sings, I am leaving."
"No promises," Sunnon murmured, but she winked.
They guided him to the chair—wide, comfortable, the kind of seat meant for sinking. Sunlass dimmed the overhead lights and turned on softer lamps. Sunivy and Sunleaf brought in potted plants that filled the room with new, green scent.
Sunbrass appeared with a tray of small desserts and a steaming pot of herbal tea. "We tested several blends," he said proudly. "This one is scientifically designed to bully you into relaxing."
Sunsword leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes warm. Sunsuna perched on the arm of a nearby sofa, watching Sunbeam with open fondness.
"Allow us," Solardye said quietly.
Solarstride draped the blanket over Sunbeam's lap. Solarpuff placed a warm mug into his hands. Solarstorm, under Solardale's close supervision, lit a small, contained spark-fountain in a glass bowl on the table—tiny starbursts, soft and hypnotic.
"There," SunM said from the doorway, having appeared at some point with Sunbond in tow. "A General in his natural habitat: surrounded by people who refuse to let him self-destruct."
Sunbeam shook his head, but the protest in his eyes was already crumbling. The warmth of the tea seeped into his fingers; the blanket was heavier than it looked, anchoring him.
"You are all ridiculous," he murmured.
"Yes," Sunbond agreed. "Ridiculously loyal."
As they talked around him—telling stories from the states Solardye had visited, sharing funny feedback from Lantern Nights, reading aloud anonymous "thank you" notes submitted through the initiative—Sunbeam's posture gradually eased.
Sunleaf shifted to stand behind the chair, gently pressing her hands to his shoulders. "May I?" she asked.
He hesitated, then nodded.
She began to work out the knots with careful, practiced pressure—nothing suggestive, just the firm, reassuring touch of someone determined to knead the stress out of another person's life.
"You carry too much up here," she murmured. "That cannot be good for cosmic balance."
Sunsuna joined her on the other side, mimicking the motion on his upper arm. "We'll redistribute the stress load. Team effort."
Voices washed over him: Solarstream recounting a pier race gone wrong, Sunnon dramatizing her failed attempt to juggle lanterns, Sunbrass announcing that his new marinade had been unofficially declared "borderline illegal in three districts" due to how addictive it was.
Sunbeam's eyelids drooped.
Solardye watched the General's head slowly tilt back, the lines in his face smoothing.
"Status?" Solarstorm whispered.
"Rest level rising," Solardye replied softly. "Mission proceeding."
Moments later, Sunbeam's head lolled to one side, breath evening into the steady rhythm of genuine sleep.
No one cheered. Instead, a hush of shared tenderness fell over the room.
Sunleaf drew the blanket up a little higher. Sunsuna brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead.
Solarstride adjusted the chair so his neck wouldn't cramp. Solarpuff quietly confiscated the nearest stack of paperwork and handed it to Sunwis, who had been lurking proudly in the doorway with a data-tablet and a smug expression.
"We'll guard him," Sunsword said, voice low. "If he wakes up and tries to work, we'll bury him in pastries."
"Officially," Solardye said, "this is recorded as a 'mandatory morale-stabilization session.'"
SunM nodded. "I will sign that."
Sunbond added, "So will I."
They dimmed the lights a little further. Someone put on soft music. Conversation continued, but in quieter tones. The office, usually a battlefield of policy and crisis, had become—for one rare evening—a Lantern Night just for its owner.
And in the middle of it all, surrounded by friends, wrapped in warmth and steady voices, General Sunbeam slept peacefully, for once not as a symbol, but as a man finally allowed to rest.
Solardye's "Mandatory Rest" operation ended the way all successful missions should: with the target snoring softly and everyone else speaking in whispers.
Sunbeam slept in the deep, unguarded way of someone who had finally been outvoted by love. The blanket rose and fell slowly over his chest. The tiny spark-fountain on the side table had burned down to a faint, glowing ember.
Most of the group had drifted out of the office in ones and twos—Solarstream and Solarstorm arguing about the optimal size of indoor fireworks, Solarpuff and Sunleaf exchanging notes on tea blends, Sunsword and Sunsuna sneaking one last fond glance at the General before slipping away.
Solardale remained.
He stood a little apart from the others, hands folded behind his back, eyes on the sleeping figure in the chair. In the dimmed light, Sunbeam looked younger. For once, the weight of the Solar Regime was not visible on his shoulders.
"This," Solardale murmured quietly, "is what we must build for him. Not just policies. Not just programs. Structures that can hold all of this."
Solardye, passing by with a tablet tucked under one arm, paused. "You mean the Sunrise Connection infrastructure?"
"I mean everything," Solardale said. "Community houses. Lantern plazas. Safe streets. Spaces where what he said in that speech is not poetry, but floor plans."
Solardye smiled faintly. "Then perhaps it is your turn to take the lead episode, Solardale."
Solardale inclined his head. "Perhaps it is."
He glanced one more time at Sunbeam, fast asleep and finally at peace, and made a quiet promise to himself:
I will build the walls and roofs that make this kind of safety ordinary.
Episode: "The Architect of Warmth"
Starring Supreme Commander Solardale
Morning found Solardale not in a war room, but in front of a construction site.
In a dense neighborhood of Solvanairebolis, where tall apartment blocks leaned gently toward one another like old friends, a wide lot had been cleared. Temporary fences surrounded it, covered with posters showing concept art: a low, inviting building with big windows, a courtyard full of plants, long tables, and lantern hooks along every wall.
A sign read:
SUNRISE COMMUNITY HOUSE – DISTRICT 7
A place where no one has to be alone.
Solardale adjusted the orange-grey jacket he wore over his uniform—sturdy fabric, made for dust and blueprints. His hair was tied back neatly, but tiny flecks of white chalk already smudged his sleeves.
Around him, a small team of elites and engineers waited.
Sunbrick, arms folded like a walking wall, nodded to him. "Foundations are ready, Commander. We can start raising the frame as soon as we finalize the interior layout."
Sunarch, slender and precise, held a stack of schematic sheets and a stylus. "We have three layout options. All structurally sound. The question is: what feels most like... home?"
Sunmarble tapped a foot, impatient in a bright orange hard hat. "We could decide inside an office, or we could ask the people who are actually going to use the space."
Solardale nodded. "We ask."
He turned to where a small crowd had gathered outside the fences: parents walking children to school, shopkeepers on break, a group of elders with morning tea in hand, a few curious teenagers on bicycles.
"Good morning," Solardale called, voice carrying easily. "This will be your house. May I borrow your minds for a moment?"
The crowd stirred, surprised but eager.
Soon tables had been set up with big sheets of paper and colored markers. Sunivy and Sunleaf passed out cups of citrus tea while Sunlass encouraged people to sketch what they wanted:
"I don't know how to draw," one man protested.
"Draw badly," Sunlass replied. "Bad drawings still show good ideas."
Solardale watched as lines and shapes appeared:
– A child drew a big oval labeled "Game Table" with stick figures around it.
– An elder drew many small rooms along a corridor and wrote, "Places to talk one-on-one."
– A woman in work overalls sketched a large central hall: "For community dinners and Lantern Nights."
– A nervous-looking young man drew a corner with bookshelves and a single chair: "Quiet corner. I want to be near people, but not in the middle."
Sunarch leaned closer to Solardale. "We can combine these. Flexible hall, movable partitions, varied corners."
Sunbrick grunted. "And good sound dampening. So the game table doesn't scare the quiet reader."
Solardale's lips curved. He stepped up to the table, tapping a blank sheet and sketching a simple shape: a central room, branching into warm, irregular spaces like petals.
"We build," he said, "a house with a heart and many small shelters around it. The heart is where people gather. The shelters are where they can retreat without truly leaving."
He circled the central area. "Lantern Nights here. Shared meals here. Music here."
Then he drew smaller spaces off to the side. "Study corner. Story corner. Just-sit-and-breathe corner."
He looked up at the gathered neighbors.
"Will that serve you?" he asked.
A chorus of nods. Someone said, "That's... more than we hoped for." Another added, "I'll help paint." A teenager chimed in, "Can we have a wall where everyone can leave notes?"
"Absolutely," Sunmarble said. "A message wall. Consider it done."
Solardale made a note: "Design finalized with resident input. Pride of ownership increased."
It felt right.
Field Trip: Sunbeam as a Side Character
A few weeks later, the Sunrise Community House – District 7 held its soft opening.
Lanterns hung from the eaves even in daylight, gently swaying. Inside, the air smelled of new wood, fresh paint, and the first batch of tea brewing in the communal kitchen.
Solardale walked slowly through the completed building, fingertips tracing the edges of doorframes, boots silent on smooth flooring.
In the main hall, long tables waited. In one cozy corner, a low bookshelf hugged a window seat. Another corner held a round table already strewn with board games and cards. The "message wall" was still mostly blank, except for a single note in big, careful letters:
"Thank you for building this. – Someone who was tired of eating alone."
"Commander?"
He turned. Sunbeam stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, dressed deceptively simply: a clean orange shirt, dark trousers, no medals, but the air around him still shifted subtly when he entered a room.
"Checking up on my builders?" Sunbeam asked.
"Inspecting my own work," Solardale replied. "You taught us not to sign decrees we wouldn't walk through personally."
Sunbeam stepped into the hall, eyes roaming over the space. His gaze softened as he took in the flexible partitions, the scattered seating, the already-claimed message wall.
"It feels... gentle," he said.
"That was the goal," Solardale answered. "A place where your speech becomes furniture."
Sunbeam hoisted himself onto a table edge, sitting like a citizen, not a General. "Tell me the story."
So Solardale did—about Soltromberg's breakfast squares, Solafleur's wish-trees, Solquaria Nexus' pier evenings. About residents who had drawn their imaginations into the floor plan. About kids who had insisted on a "pillow corner for emergency group hugs."
Sunbeam listened, expression somewhere between proud and wistful.
"You're making my ideals very hard to escape from," he said.
"That," Solardale replied quietly, "is the entire point."
Thanksgiving Echoes – Across the Map
Solardale's work carried him beyond Solvanairebolis.
In Solzenith, he helped design a lantern-lit rooftop garden above a busy transit hub, where commuters could stop for ten minutes and remember they had more in common than their schedules. Sunrail, Suncliff, and Sunterra worked with him, arguing amiably about plant arrangements and rail safety.
In Solamber Coast, he walked with Sunwave and Sunmarin along sea walls where new benches had been built in pairs, deliberately angled toward one another instead of isolated. Lantern hooks had been installed overhead, ready for weekly shoreline gatherings.
In a small inland town whose name most people outside the region forgot, he helped Sunhikari and Sunchi convert an abandoned warehouse into a bright, airy hall for dances, game nights, and the most basic magic of all: sitting at long tables and talking while soup steamed in big shared pots.
At each stop, someone mentioned Thanksgiving.
"That big feast in Radiant Plaza made us think," a woman said, stirring a pot in the warehouse kitchen. "Not just about food. About how empty it felt to go back to separate apartments afterwards."
"We wanted... a place to keep that feeling," a teenager added, balancing a crate of cups.
Solardale nodded. "That is what these houses are. Jarred sunlight—moments preserved and shared."
He wasn't Sunbeam. He didn't give dramatic speeches. But the quiet weight of his presence, the way he listened and adjusted plans, had its own kind of gravity.
More than once, an elite would nudge another and whisper, "This episode is very calm, isn't it?" and hear the reply, "Yeah. Feels like those slow anime episodes when everyone just cleans the festival grounds and talks."
And somehow, those episodes always ended up being people's favorites.
A Small Surprise of His Own
The next time Sunbeam visited his office after a long day of meetings, he almost walked past without noticing.
In the corner near his usual chair, where the spark-fountain had been, stood a small, perfect model.
A scale miniature of the Sunrise Community House – District 7, rendered in pale wood and glass, lantern hooks the size of pinheads. Tiny figures—barely the size of his fingernail—stood in its hall: one reading in a window seat, two laughing at a table, a group clustered near a kitchen counter.
On the side of the model, in neat lettering, were the words:
"For the one who lit the first lanterns.
From the one who builds them a home."
– Solardale
Sunbeam picked it up carefully, smile tugging at his lips.
He imagined all the real houses scattered now across Sollarisca: waking to Thanksgiving breakfasts, Lantern Nights, friendship mixers, quiet corners where someone could sit near others without being forced to talk.
All of it held together by beams and bricks that Solardale and his teams had coaxed into place.
Later that week, at a small internal gathering—no cameras, no media—Sunbeam lifted a glass toward Solardale across the room.
"To the architect of warmth," he said.
Solardale shook his head. "I only arrange space," he replied.
Sunbeam's eyes were kind. "Sometimes space is what makes everything else possible."
Around them, elites and commanders talked, laughed, leaned on one another's shoulders. Another Thanksgiving might be months away, but the feeling of that holiday—the fullness, the gratitude, the refusal to let anyone stand alone at the edge of the light—had lingered, woven now into the very walls of Sollarisca.
And as the "episode" faded to its gentle credits in the imaginary anime of their lives, Supreme Commander Solardale walked home through streets lined with lanterns he had helped hang, content in the quiet knowledge that the structures he built were not just buildings.
They were promises, made solid.
Solardale's model of the Sunrise Community House stayed on Sunbeam's desk like a tiny, glowing promise.
Life in Sollarisca rolled forward—Lantern Nights scheduled, community houses furnished, transport routes redrawn to funnel people toward each other instead of past each other. What had started as one enormous Thanksgiving feast in Radiant Plaza had quietly stretched into weeks of gratitude in motion.
Where Solardale's world was blueprints and beams, another Supreme Commander's domain was motion itself.
Solarstream.
"The Roads Between Hearts"
Starring Supreme Commander Solarstream
While Solardale traced lines on maps, Solarstream traced them across the sky and streets.
He was never still for long. If the Sunrise Connection Initiative was about bringing people together, Solarstream was the one making sure the paths existed—trains, trams, safe roads, walking routes, even running clubs.
One evening in the strategy hall, as maps and schedules glowed around them, Sunbeam tapped a page and looked at him.
"You're our current," the General said. "Everyone else builds the lamps. You make sure the power reaches them."
Solarstream scratched the back of his neck, half-embarrassed. "That's a poetic way of saying I yell at tram depots a lot."
SunM folded her arms. "We need more than yelling. The Sunrise programs are spreading fast. Some districts still feel like the 'edge' of the world. I'd like that edge to disappear."
On the end of the table, Sunwis opened a document with a flourish.
"Then we tie it to something people already understand," he said. On the screen appeared a title:
THE SEVEN LUMINOUS VIRTUES OF SOLLARISCA
Solarstream leaned forward. "You made virtues into a transit memo?"
"I made transit into a moral code," Sunwis replied. "You're welcome."
He read them off, one by one, in his matter-of-fact voice:
Gratitude
Justice
Courage
Compassion
Temperance
Hope
Humility
"We're not carving them into stone tablets," Sunbeam added, smiling. "But they're a good compass. Especially around holidays. Especially around Thanksgiving."
Solarstream looked at the glowing list and felt something click.
"Give me one week," he said. "I'll take these virtues out on the roads. I want to see if they actually live out there, not just in speeches."
Sunbeam's eyes softened with pride. "Take whoever you need."
"I'll take whoever I trip over," Solarstream replied. "It's more fun that way."
1. Gratitude – Cleanup Crew at Radiant Plaza
His first stop wasn't some distant outpost. It was right where Thanksgiving had exploded into life: Radiant Plaza of Solvanairebolis.
Holiday banners still drifted from balconies, but the tables were gone. What remained was less glamorous: scuffed stone, stray confetti, a forgotten lantern or two, and crews sweeping, scrubbing, and hauling waste.
Solarstream showed up in a simple work shirt, orange sleeves rolled to his elbows, no formal escort.
Sunlass was already there, hair tied up, broom in hand. Sunbrass had ditched his apron for a utility vest and was directing crates of reusable dishware. Sunterra and Sunleaf moved together down the steps, retying loose lantern cords and rescuing any that were still good.
Solarstream grabbed a broom from a startled worker.
"Commander?" they blurted. "You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do," he said, already sweeping. "Thanksgiving doesn't end when the cameras switch off."
He worked alongside them, not watching the clock, joking as he went.
"The General got a lot of 'thank you' speeches," he said, pushing a pile of confetti into a bin. "But you all carried tables until your arms shook. If we're talking Gratitude, it starts here."
Sunivory, a young elite with a shy demeanor, whispered, "It feels weird, you helping clean like this."
"Good weird?" Solarstream asked.
"...Yeah," she admitted.
He grinned. "Then that's the right kind."
By midday, the plaza shone again. Lantern hooks were neatly coiled, the stones washed, the trash sorted for recycling. Solarstream stood with the others, hands on his hips, breathing hard, sweat visible even in the cool air.
"Note it down," he told Sunwis later. "Thanksgiving shouldn't make hidden workers feel invisible. Gratitude is a broom, not just a speech."
2. Justice – The Forgotten Quarter
The next day, Solarstream rode a tram out to District 12-B, a part of Solvanairebolis that rarely made it onto glossy brochures.
Buildings leaned a little closer here. Some Lantern Night posters were torn or crooked. The new Sunrise Community House for this region was still "pending approval"—buried under red tape and resource juggling.
"This district didn't get a Thanksgiving event," Sunhikari explained, walking beside him. "By the time Radiant Plaza was set, there weren't enough supplies or staff left. People watched the feast on screens. For them, it was... somewhere else."
Solarstream frowned.
Justice wasn't always dramatic. Sometimes it looked like a scheduling error no one took responsibility for.
"How many people live here?" he asked.
"Plenty," Sunhikari said. "Workers on night shifts, families with three jobs, students commuting to other states... They pass through Solvanairebolis, but they don't really feel part of it."
Solarstream made the decision quickly.
"Shift some of the Lantern Night budget," he told Sunwis over comms. "We're doing a late Thanksgiving here. No leftovers. Fresh. Full treatment."
Within two days, with the help of Sunbrass, Sunlass, Sunivy, Sunwave, and a half-dozen others, a modest square in 12-B had transformed. Long tables. Real food. A compact Sunrise pavilion with warm light and a tea corner.
When the first District 12-B residents stepped into the square, they looked... suspicious. Like they expected to be charged, or told this was "not for them."
Solarstream stood on a crate and raised a hand.
"This is your Thanksgiving," he said simply. "Not a rerun. Not a discount version. The same warmth, same promise: no one left outside the light."
Sunleaf whispered beside him, "You're good at this."
"Justice," he said quietly, "means the feast always loops back for whoever was missed."
3. Courage – The Sudden Storm
On the fourth day, a sudden coastal storm struck Solquaria Nexus.
It hit fast: heavy rain, high winds, a snap decision whether to cancel that evening's Pier Lantern Night or trust the weather to pass. Transport schedules went haywire; a tram stalled in a low tunnel leading toward the piers, full of families heading to their first Sunrise event.
Solarstream happened to be on-site, reviewing pier safety rails with Sunmarin when the alert chimed.
"Stalled tram, flooded access ramp, scared passengers," came the report. "We're re-routing if we can, but—"
"I'm going down there," Solarstream said immediately.
Sunmarin grabbed a waterproof cloak. "Then you're not going alone."
They reached the tram tunnel to find water pooling near the lower entrance and light flickering. Children were crying at the windows. Parents looked strained, trapped between staying aboard and braving the shallow, rising water outside.
Solarstream climbed onto the front bumper, rain soaking his hair flat. He knocked on the glass and gave the driver a thumbs-up. The intercom crackled.
"Folks," he said patiently, "my name is Solarstream. I handle get-you-there-safely problems for a living. We're going to step out together, slowly, and walk up that ramp. Nobody runs, nobody pushes."
Somewhere, a child asked, "Is he one of the heroes?"
An adult answered, "He's... one of the ones who keeps things working."
Solarstream smiled at that.
He waded in first, feeling the cold water slap his calves. Sunmarin and a line of Sun Soldiers formed a human chain along the ramp. Passengers stepped out one by one, holding hands, guided by calm voices.
Courage, he reflected, wasn't the absence of fear. It was the presence of someone steady to follow.
As the last family reached higher ground, a girl in an oversized orange raincoat ran back and hugged him briefly around the waist.
"Thank you," she mumbled, embarrassed, then darted away.
Later, soaked and tired, Solarstream heard Sunwis on the comms: "We should add emergency-response drills to the Sunrise program schedules."
"Do that," Solarstream said. "Lantern Nights don't matter if people can't reach them safely."
4. Compassion – Thanksgiving in the Quiet Wards
Word travelled quickly. The storm footage made the local news, catching even Sunbeam's attention.
But Solarstream moved on before it could turn into a spotlight.
His next stop: a hospital complex in Solvanairebolis that had hum quietly through every holiday—intensive care wards, long-term recovery floors, rehabilitation centers where patients had watched Thanksgiving on screens but never smelled the feast.
Sunterra and Sunivy waited at the entrance with carts of carefully prepared meals. Sunbrass had crafted a "gentler menu" for delicate stomachs. Sunleaf carried small potted plants, their leaves a bright, brave green.
"Room by room?" Solarstream asked.
"Room by room," Sunterra confirmed.
They didn't do anything dramatic. Compassion rarely was.
They knocked gently, introduced themselves softly, left food where patients could reach it. They chatted about anything except illness unless the patient chose the topic: favorite foods, memories of old festivals, the best part of living in Sollarisca, even silly arguments over which region had the best bakeries.
One older man, eyes dim but focused, listened as Solarstream described the lanterns in Aurora Grove Park.
"Never thought I'd see the day when generals and commanders spent this much time worrying whether people have friends," the man said, chuckling weakly. "Used to be they only cared whether we had rations."
Solarstream smiled. "We're trying to be more ambitious."
The man snorted and reached out, lightly tapping Solarstream's chest with two fingers. "Keep doing the right thing. Not just the easy thing."
Solarstream bowed his head. "Yes, sir."
By the time they finished the last floor, the carts were empty. The ward halls felt a little less sterile, a little more like they belonged to the same world as Radiant Plaza.
5. Temperance – Saying "Enough"
Thanksgiving, even stretched into weeks, had a shadow: the temptation to overdo everything.
One evening in a bustling part of Solvanairebolis, Solarstream visited a Sunrise-affiliated café. It was packed with staff still in partial uniform, running on caffeine and adrenaline.
Sunridge, the manager, looked exhausted but wired. "We extended hours for Lantern Nights, Commander. People keep coming. We don't want to turn anyone away."
Solarstream watched the baristas: Sunquill's hands shaking slightly as he pulled another espresso; Sunlindsey stifling a yawn in between orders; Sunmusic leaning on the counter between songs.
"How many shifts in a row?" he asked quietly.
"Three," Sunridge admitted. "We thought it was worth it. People are so happy here."
"People could also be happy," Solarstream said, "seeing a 'Closed – Staff Resting' sign once in a while."
He stepped up onto a chair, whistled for attention, and raised his voice.
"Everyone!" he called. "Free drinks for the next fifteen minutes. Then this café closes early."
A ripple of surprise ran through the room.
"For tonight," he added, "your baristas, musicians, and staff are going to sit down with you. No one orders. You share tables. Tell each other your favorite part of this new Thanksgiving season. Then we all go home at a reasonable hour."
Sunridge stared. "Commander—"
"This is Temperance," Solarstream said, hopping back down. "Knowing when 'more' stops being generous and starts being harmful. You can't pour from an empty pot. Not even tea."
In the awkward, magical pause that followed, customers began to clap. Slowly at first, then with genuine warmth.
Sunquill stepped out from behind the bar and sat with a group of regulars. Sunlindsey shared a table with musicians who'd been performing nonstop for days. Sunmusic passed around a guitar and told someone else to take a turn.
The lights dimmed early. No one complained.
6. Hope – The Training Grounds
Near the edge of Solvanairebolis, a vast training ground sprawled like a scar turned into a garden.
Once, it had been mainly for combat drills, tactical exercises, war games. Now, in the wake of Sunbeam's new era, it was shifting: sections converted into crisis-response training, engineering labs, and cooperative problem-solving zones.
Solarstream arrived to find a group of young recruits standing in a row, stiff and nervous. Sunstride stood in front of them, clipboard in hand.
"We told them you were coming to inspect their progress," Sunstride murmured aside.
Solarstream raised an eyebrow. "So I'm the scary boss?"
"More like the older brother who runs too fast and we're afraid we can't keep up," Sunstride said.
Solarstream walked the line, meeting each pair of eyes. Some were bright, full of excitement; others were guarded, carrying old fears.
"Thanksgiving," he said, "wasn't just a feast. It was a question: what kind of future are we building?"
He nodded toward the city skyline visible beyond the training field.
"You're the answer," he continued. "Not because you can swing a weapon or recite a protocol, but because you're learning how to protect people's ordinary days. Lantern Nights, community houses, tram rides, park walks. The Sunrise programs aren't background—they're our mission now."
One recruit raised a hand hesitantly. "Sir...what if we mess up? What if we're not as strong as the legends?"
Solarstream smiled, not mockingly, but with real gentleness.
"Hope isn't about being perfect," he said. "It's about believing that your efforts matter. You will make mistakes. We all do. But if you act with those seven virtues in mind—Gratitude, Justice, Courage, Compassion, Temperance, Hope, Humility—you'll be the kind of protectors Sollarisca actually needs."
He looked at them one by one.
"The stories people tell in future Thanksgivings? I want them to mention you—not as warriors in some dramatic battle, but as the reason their kids made it home safe, or their Lantern Night wasn't canceled, or their lonely neighbor found a friend."
Something brightened in their faces. Training didn't look less serious—but it looked more meaningful.
7. Humility – The Running General
Solarstream's "virtue week" wound quietly toward its end.
On the last morning, before the suns had fully cleared the horizon, he joined a small volunteer group running food deliveries from a central kitchen to various Sunrise houses around Solvanairebolis.
No announcements. No cameras. Just orange dawn light, crates of bread and stew, and a route map.
Sunhikari, Sunterra, Suncliff, Sunivory, and a couple of unofficial neighborhood runners—teenagers in simple orange hoodies—met him at the loading dock.
"Commander," one teen said, eyes wide. "You sure you want to do this? It's a lot of stairs."
Solarstream hefted a crate onto his shoulder. "Then it's good training."
They jogged through waking streets: up stairwells, across skybridges, down narrow alleyways where early vendors set up stalls. At each Sunrise house, they set the crates down, shared a few tired jokes, and moved on.
As they rounded a corner near District 7's Community House, they nearly ran into Sunbeam.
The General stood outside, coffee in hand, clearly having just emerged from a quiet walk-through of the building Solardale had shown him.
He took in the scene: Solarstream sweaty and breathing hard, kids grinning, elites flushed but cheerful, crates in hand.
"Good morning," Sunbeam said, amused. "Out for a casual sprint?"
"Thanksgiving cardio," Solarstream replied. "Distribution run for the early community meals. Someone has to make sure the bread gets there on time."
One of the teens blurted, "He carried two crates up six flights of stairs, sir."
Solarstream groaned. "Don't report my bad decisions to the head of state."
Sunbeam's eyes softened with something deep and warm.
"Thank you," he said. Not as a formal phrase, but as a full-hearted acknowledgment.
Solarstream shrugged, a little shy. "Just doing what we said we'd do. The virtues aren't worth much if they live only on posters."
Sunbeam lifted his coffee in a tiny salute. "Then consider this my personal Thanksgiving toast to you, Commander. To the man who keeps the roads between hearts running."
Solarstream scratched his cheek. "Trying, anyway."
As the delivery group ran on, laughter trailing behind them, Sunbeam watched them go with a faint, proud smile.
That evening, in a quiet corner of the strategy hall, Solarstream sat with Sunwis, filling out a short, private report—not the usual logistics log, but something more like a diary.
He typed the final line:
Thanksgiving doesn't end at the table.
It continues in the broom, in the tram tunnel, in the hospital hallway, in the café closing early, in the training field, in the delivery run.
The seven virtues aren't statues. They're footsteps.
He hit save.
Outside, Lantern Nights glowed over plazas and piers. Sunrise Community Houses buzzed with voices and clinking mugs. Somewhere, Solardale was drawing up plans for the next house; Solardye was balancing freight loads; Solarpuff was probably dragging Sunlance into another "mandatory fun" activity; Sunbeam, perhaps, was walking through a park, checking the benches for lonely silhouettes.
And Solarstream?
He tied his shoes again.
There were always more roads to run—more ways to quietly, stubbornly do the right thing for the people of Sollarisca, until Thanksgiving wasn't a single day at all, but the everyday language of how they treated one another.
Solarstream's week of "living the virtues" ended the way most of his days did—breathless, a little messy, and oddly perfect.
Late that night, he found Solarstride in one of the high walkways of the Radiant Citadel, overlooking Solvanairebolis. The city glowed in layers of orange—streetlamps, lanterns, holo-signs—every light reflecting in Solarstride's bright orange eyes. His hair, the same vivid color, stirred in the elevated breeze like a small controlled flame.
"You turned ethics into cardio," Solarstride remarked, not looking away from the view.
Solarstream huffed a quiet laugh. "Somebody had to prove the virtues work at running speed."
Solarstride folded his arms, orange sleeves sharp and precise even off the battlefield. "Then it is my turn to prove they work at walking pace."
Solarstream tilted his head. "You going to inspect the training grounds again?"
"Not only that," Solarstride said. "Solardye tests the systems. Solardale builds the houses. You ensure the paths to them. Someone must walk through the in-between places and see if the spirit of Thanksgiving actually lives there. The way people queue. The way they share. The way they treat strangers when no general is giving a speech."
Solarstream smirked. "You always did like being the quiet conscience in the corner."
"I prefer 'steady stride beneath the suns,'" Solarstride replied dryly.
From behind them, footsteps sounded. Sunbeam approached, still in his formal orange uniform, though his jacket hung open and his medals caught the light less fiercely at this hour. His orange hair was slightly tousled, those unmistakable orange eyes soft as he regarded his commanders.
"You two are plotting," Sunbeam said mildly.
"Monitoring," Solarstride corrected. "Thanksgiving has become a season, not a day. If we wish it to be part of everyday life, we must watch the small things."
"Then go," Sunbeam said. "Take whomever you wish. Remember the seven virtues we named. And try," he added, a faint smile forming, "to enjoy the good luck that comes your way instead of treating it as a statistical anomaly."
Solarstream nudged Solarstride lightly with an elbow. "Careful. When you walk around corners, strange things happen. I've seen it."
Solarstride only inclined his head. "Then we will see what waits around the next corner."
The next morning, he set out.
His attire was Solar Regime to the core: solid bright orange from collar to boots, trimmed with slightly darker orange piping that marked his rank. His hair was the same burning hue, cut neat but not severe, and his eyes reflected the twin suns that rose over Sollarisca. Everywhere he walked, he looked like a piece of the dawn set in motion. Around him, other Supreme Commanders and elites—Solardye, Solardale, Solarstream, Solarpuff, Sunlass, Sunivy, Sunleaf, Sunmusic, Sunbrass, and others—would drift in and out of his path over the days, each adding their color to the tapestry of his quiet inspections.
His first steps took him back to Radiant Plaza.
By now, the plaza had settled into its new role. The great Thanksgiving feast was past, but in its wake had come something gentler: small Lantern Night kiosks, Sunrise Initiative booths, community tables that remained permanently in one corner. The paving stones had been scrubbed clean; the lingering scent of spices and roasted vegetables had been replaced by the lighter smells of day-to-day food vendors.
Solarstride walked through the square with his hands loosely clasped behind him, eyes attentive but not harsh. He stopped by a stall where Sunbrass, in a crisp orange apron, was offering discounted breakfast bowls to anyone who brought a friend.
"Commander," Sunbrass said, blinking in surprise before straightening. "We didn't schedule an inspection."
"This is not an inspection," Solarstride replied. "It is a walk." He nodded toward the hand-painted sign: BRING A FRIEND, SHARE A BOWL, TWO SPOONS, ONE STORY. "How is this working?"
Sunbrass' orange eyes lit up. "Better than expected, sir. People like an excuse to tug someone else along. I've seen strangers who met at the Lantern Nights now planning breakfast together."
Solarstride watched as a young worker in plain orange workwear hesitated at the edge of the stall, glancing between the menu and an older man sitting alone at a nearby table. The younger man took a breath and approached.
"Um... excuse me," he said, voice uncertain. "The sign says I need a friend to get the discount. Would you...?"
The older man looked startled, then slowly smiled. "I have always wanted to be legally classified as 'a friend.' Sit, sit."
They laughed. Sunbrass beamed. Solarstride nodded once, quietly satisfied.
"That is Gratitude," he said softly. "Not only for food, but for company."
He moved on.
Near the plaza's transport hub, a short queue had formed at a small Sunrise kiosk where Sunivy and Sunnyko were distributing information about upcoming connection events. A minor commotion caught Solarstride's attention: a man in a worn jacket trying to edge around the line, insisting he only had one quick question, while others frowned.
"Sir, there's a line," Sunivy said, calm but firm.
"I just have to ask if there's a Lantern Night in my district," the man said. "I'll be quick."
"Everyone here has 'just a question,'" another citizen said. "We all waited."
Solarstride stepped closer. He did not raise his voice; he did not need to.
"Justice," he said, and the single word drew eyes his way. "We do not let urgency excuse us from fairness."
The man turned, startled. "Commander— I wasn't trying to— I just—"
"I understand," Solarstride replied, his tone measured. "You want to know if there will be warmth waiting in your own neighborhood. That is important. But so is the message we send in how we stand here. When someone cuts a line in Radiant Plaza, someone else learns that their time is worth less."
He gestured toward the queue. "Please, take your place. I will remain here until your question is answered, if that reassures you that the wait is not wasted."
The man's shoulders loosened. "Yes, sir. I'm... sorry." He stepped back to the end of the line. A few people murmured thanks under their breath; one person quietly moved aside to stand near him, striking up conversation.
Solarstride gave Sunivy a small nod. "Carry on."
She smiled back. "We will."
Later that day, he left Solvanairebolis behind, boarding a swift orange transport toward the state of Lightwellmar, where vast solar arrays and tidy towns glowed like constellations on the land. The train itself was subdued but comfortable: orange seats, orange signage, passengers in various shades of orange clothing, eyes reflecting the lightlike embers.
He chose not to sit in the reserved officer's car, preferring a standard carriage. Sunlass and Sunmusic joined him, sliding into the seats opposite and sideways respectively.
"Field trip with Solarstride," Sunlass said. "Very formal. Very mysterious. Very orange."
"I blame the suns," Sunmusic added, half joking. "They set the dress code when the world was born."
Solarstride allowed himself a faint, amused exhale. "Lightwellmar has implemented the Sunrise Initiative in its own way. I am curious to see it. And I wish to ensure that, beneath the celebrations, there is actual care."
"Do you ever admit to coming along just to enjoy yourself?" Sunlass asked.
"I admit," he said, "that it is pleasant when doing the right thing also happens to be enjoyable."
Sunmusic grinned. "That's as wild as he gets."
In Lightwellmar's capital, Solzenith, the air itself seemed brighter. Solar towers gleamed; streets were laid out in clean lines that made navigation almost intuitive. Thanksgiving here had been accompanied by innovative Lantern Night experiments: rooftop gatherings, balcony-to-balcony call-and-response songs, communal breakfasts near the solar fields.
Solarstride visited one of the newly designated "Stride Paths"—walking routes marked with soft, glowing orange lines and small shrines to the seven virtues printed on panels along the way. Families walked, children running ahead and then circling back, couples strolling hand in hand. At certain intervals, community volunteers offered small things: cups of water, advice on events, even simple conversation.
On one corner, a boy in a slightly too-large orange jacket stood with a box of folded papers.
"Virtue cards?" Sunlass asked. "That's new."
The boy brightened. "Yes! We made them at the community house. You pick one at random and try to practice it on your walk."
Solarstride stepped forward. "May I?"
"Of course, Commander!" the boy said, cheeks flushing. He held out the box with reverence.
Solarstride reached in and drew a card. It read, in neat handwriting:
Compassion – Notice who walks alone.
He looked up. At the far end of the path, under a tree where the orange light pooled softly, a woman sat on a bench, facing the street but clearly not part of any group. People passed her by without malice, but also without pause.
Solarstride folded the card between his fingers.
"Stay here," he told Sunlass and Sunmusic.
They exchanged a glance, then watched as he walked the path slowly, his stride unhurried, his presence calm. When he reached the bench, he did not sit uninvited. He stopped a respectful distance away.
"Good afternoon," he said.
The woman looked up, surprised. Her orange hair was growing out unevenly, as if she had recently cut it herself. Her eyes were the same Solar hue but dulled by weariness.
"Commander," she said, startled, beginning to rise.
"Please," he said gently, raising a hand. "Remain seated. May I join you?"
She hesitated, then nodded. He sat, leaving enough space that she would not feel crowded.
"For some people," he said quietly, "Thanksgiving was loud and easy. For others, it can feel... pointed."
She looked down at her hands. "I lost my husband this year. The Lantern Nights are beautiful. But sometimes it feels like the light is shining on a place where someone used to be."
Solarstride's gaze was steady. "The Sunrise Initiative is not meant to erase grief," he said. "Nor to hurry its end. It is meant to make sure you do not carry it alone unless you want to."
She blinked rapidly. "People ask why I don't come to the big events. I tell them I'm busy. But I'm just... tired of being the only one without someone to sit next to."
He inclined his head. "Would you be willing to try a smaller gathering? There is a quiet sunrise tea event at the community house tomorrow. No speeches. Just chairs, soft music, and people who understand that sometimes company must be gentle. If you prefer, I will send Sunlass to walk with you to the door."
She gave a small, surprised laugh. "You command that kind of detail?"
"It is not an order," he said. "It is an offer."
She considered, then nodded. "All right. I'll try."
He rose, bowed slightly, and walked back along the path. Sunlass and Sunmusic watched him.
"You got Compassion, didn't you?" Sunlass said softly as he approached.
Solarstride unfolded the card. "Yes."
Sunmusic leaned over. "If I pull a card and it says 'Sing loudly,' I'm handing it back."
The day carried him onward to Solafleur. He rode in a small orange escort craft with Solarpuff and Solarstorm, who had joined for this leg.
"Solafleur's fields are planning a 'Thanksgiving-in-advance' for next year," Solarpuff explained. "They want to build good habits early. Morning markets with shared breakfasts, volunteer harvest days, all that."
Solarstorm, orange hair spiked messily in all directions, leaned back in his seat. "They also want to build a festival wheel with lantern-jackpot numbers and triple-7 sun symbols. Purely for fun, they say. No currency, just prizes."
Solarstride's eyebrow lifted. "Triple sevens?"
"In their mythos, seven is a number of wholeness and favor," Solarpuff said. "Three sevens, triple blessing. The wheel is just a game. The prizes are things like free baskets, extra lantern strings, priority seating for community events. No one's losing anything by spinning."
Solarstorm grinned. "Still, imagine Solarstride of all people hitting triple 7s around a corner. The suns would never let us live it down."
"They would not," Solarstride agreed, but his tone held a dry amusement.
The festival in Solafleur's central town—Solbloom—had the usual Solar palette: orange banners, orange tents, orange clothing in every possible texture and shade. Orchards flanked the town on all sides, lanterns bobbing between tree branches.
In the square, the new "Fortune Wheel" stood near a long table where Sunrise volunteers registered residents for connection programs. The wheel was painted in bright orange and gold, divided into segments: single 7, double 7, triple 7, and many segments marked with simple icons of baskets, lanterns, seed packets, or tiny suns.
Sunterra and Sunleaf stood beside it, explaining the rules to a cluster of excited children.
"You spin once," Sunterra said. "If you land on any prize, you keep it. If you land on triple 7s, your whole group wins—everyone you're with at that moment."
"What if I'm alone?" a boy asked.
"Then the nearest Sun Soldier becomes your honorary group," Sunleaf replied, pointing to a nearby guard, who laughed.
Solarstride watched from the edge of the crowd, arms folded loosely, expression thoughtful.
"This is Temperance," he said quietly to Solarpuff. "A game that gives, not takes. No one loses food or money; they only gain a small joy."
Solarpuff nodded. "We were very clear with the designers. We didn't want imitation gambling. Just a symbolic way to say, 'Luck can be shared.'"
He stepped forward as a group of elders took their turn—no triple 7s, but plenty of delighted exclamations over seed packets and lantern strips. A group of teenagers tried next, arms slung over each other's shoulders. They landed on a single 7: a simple prize voucher for a free drink from one of the orange juice stalls.
"Commander," Sunterra called, noticing him. "Want to try? For quality inspection."
Solarstride considered. A small crowd waited, eyes curious. Sunbeam's words echoed in his mind: Try to enjoy the good luck that comes your way.
"One spin," he said. "For research."
He stepped to the wheel. The orange wood felt warm under his palm. He gave it a firm, even push—not too hard, not too soft, simply precise. The wheel spun, symbols blurring into a fiery ring. Children held their breath; elites murmured bets under their breath with mock solemnity.
"Come on, triple suns," Sunmusic muttered in the crowd. "Let's see if he really bends probability."
The wheel slowed, clicking past single 7, then another, then hovering at the border between a lantern icon and the triple-7 segment. For a heartbeat it seemed as though it might drop back.
Then it tipped forward one more notch and stopped.
Three perfect orange sevens lined up before the crowd.
The square erupted in laughter and cheers.
Sunleaf clapped both hands over her mouth. Sunterra whooped. Solarpuff actually jumped.
Solarstorm, unable to restrain himself, shouted, "Jackpot!" and threw his hands in the air, sparks of harmless light flickering from his fingertips.
Solarstride blinked once, then let his shoulders soften into an expression halfway between resigned amusement and genuine delight.
"It appears," he said, "that the suns have a sense of humor."
"What's the rule?" a little girl asked, tugging Sunterra's sleeve. "Triple 7s means everyone wins?"
Sunterra turned to Solarstride, eyes dancing. "Commander?"
He looked out at the festival—the families, the workers, the elderly couples, the solitary individuals lingering at the edges. For a moment, he imagined the wheel's result as something much bigger than a game.
"Then everyone wins," he said. "For the next Sunrise week, every household in Solbloom receives double rations for community events. Extra lanterns. Extra tea. Extra seats at every table. Register them, track it, and if someone doesn't come, bring the extra to their door."
The crowd roared approval. Someone cheered, "Solarstride hit the triple-7s for all of us!" A few voices began to chant his name, but he lifted a hand modestly.
"This is not about me," he said, though his eyes were warm. "It is about the principle: when fortune smiles on someone in power, they spread the light, not hoard it. Let this be recorded as an act of Hope—and a reminder that luck is at its best when shared."
Sunterra grinned. "Yes, sir. I'll make sure Sunwis adds a 'triple 7s protocol' to the ethics handbook."
"Please do not," Solarstride murmured, but he did not sound entirely serious.
As the festival continued, he strolled through Solbloom's lanes with Solarpuff and Solarstorm, watching people rushing to tell friends and neighbors about the unexpected boon.
"Do you ever get tired of being right?" Solarpuff asked him lightly.
"It is not about being right," he said. "It is about walking the path we spoke of in those meetings. If the seven virtues are real, they must speak in the language of markets and games, of queues and chance, not only in councils."
He visited more places as the Thanksgiving season stretched.
In Solamber Coast, he walked the orange-lit dunes with Solarstream and Sunwave, watching lifeguards practice rescues as part of the new "Lantern Shore Nights." When a sudden power flicker briefly darkened the beach, he watched as Sun Soldiers and volunteers calmly lit backup lanterns instead of panicking—Courage and Hope in action, born from their training.
In Solquaria Nexus, he sat with Solardye at a small café on the pier, listening as Sunridge described how closing early one night to let staff rest had sparked a new tradition: alternating weeks of extended hours and "staff Lantern Evenings" where the workers themselves were treated as honored guests. Temperance, Gratitude, and Humility had combined into policy.
In a modest town between states, he joined Solardale to examine the foundations of a new Sunrise Community House. They watched as local elites—Suncliff, Sunivory, Sunfayne, and others—argued cheerfully about where to place a message wall so shy visitors could leave notes anonymously. Justice and Compassion shaped bricks and plaster.
Everywhere he went, people spoke of Thanksgiving as something different now. Not just the day of a great feast with Sunbeam at its center, but an ongoing pattern of choices: helping a neighbor carry groceries, checking on an elderly resident in the far end of a corridor, inviting a coworker to Lantern Night instead of assuming they would not want to come.
One evening, back in Solvanairebolis, Solarstride returned to Radiant Plaza and found Sunbeam waiting on the steps of the Radiant Citadel, hands in his pockets, watching the city breathe.
"Reports are circulating," Sunbeam said as Solarstride approached. "Rumors of you hitting triple 7s in Solafleur and turning it into a district-wide blessing."
"Rumors appear accurate," Solarstride replied. "I have apologized to the statistical models."
Sunbeam laughed, the sound warm in the orange twilight. "The people loved it," he said. "They said it felt like the universe acknowledging the new era. That when one of their Supreme Commanders 'got lucky,' he used it exactly the way he spoke in his speeches."
Solarstride regarded him steadily. "We are not gods," he said. "We cannot control tremors, storms, or the trajectory of every life. But where we do have influence—policy, budgets, the direction of a festival wheel—we owe them integrity. Luck is just another field in which virtue can be tested."
"And?" Sunbeam asked. "How does Thanksgiving look from your patrol?"
Solarstride looked out over Solvanairebolis: the orange glow of Lantern Nights continuing in smaller pockets; Sunrise Houses alive with soft music and conversation; trams running late but steady; rooftop gardens lit like constellations.
"It looks," he said slowly, "as if our people are beginning to understand that gratitude is not confined to a single night. That justice is in how they queue. That courage can be walking into a community house alone and staying. That compassion is visiting a neighbor who did not show up. That temperance is closing a shop for rest. That hope is signing up for the next event even if the last one was imperfect. That humility is remembering that all of this is fragile, and caring for it anyway."
He paused, then added, "It also looks as if they enjoy watching their commanders stumble into symbolic jackpots."
Sunbeam smiled, orange eyes warm and proud. "They enjoy seeing that their leaders live by the same rules," he said. "And that sometimes, around the corner from their ordinary lives, a streak of improbable luck can spill over onto them because someone like you refuses to keep it."
"You were the one who stepped into Radiant Plaza with no escort," Solarstride noted. "You lit the first lanterns. We are only continuing the stride."
"We are doing it together," Sunbeam corrected gently. "Solardye with the flows, Solardale with the walls, Solarstream with the roads, you with the everyday behavior. Solarpuff with the morale, Solarstorm with the... controlled chaos."
In the distance, a small burst of fireworks punctuated his words, likely Solarstorm testing something "perfectly safe."
Solarstride allowed himself a rare, full smile. "And the people," he said. "Never forget them. They are the ones eating, queuing, sharing, inviting. Without them, our virtues are just ink."
They stood side by side, two figures in solid orange against a world washed in the same color, watching Sollarisca move like one great living organism.
Down in the streets, in Solvanairebolis and Solzenith and Solbloom and Solquaria Nexus and hundreds of smaller towns, the Thanksgiving season continued—not as leftover food, but as countless small, bright choices.
Somewhere, a wheel spun and landed on a lantern icon, and a child cheered.
Somewhere, a lonely person opened their door to find two elites with an extra basket of food and an invitation.
Somewhere, a barista flipped a "Closed for Staff Rest" sign and went to sit with friends under the orange light.
Solarstride watched, satisfied.
The stride of the Solar Regime had always been strong and powerful. Now, under the twin suns and the soft glow of lanterns, it was also gentle, patient, and lucky in all the right ways—a rhythm of footsteps that kept finding, just around the corner, one more reason to be thankful.
Solarstride and Sunbeam lingered on the Radiant Citadel steps a little longer, watching the ebb and flow of orange lights across Solvanairebolis. The city hummed with a softer kind of energy now—less like a war machine, more like a festival that had quietly learned how to be everyday life.
Behind them, the door to the Citadel eased open with a muted hiss. Footsteps approached, not in disciplined cadence, but in an easy, slightly impatient rhythm—like someone who had been kept waiting just long enough to start plotting.
"Are we done philosophizing on the stairs," a familiar voice drawled, "or do I need to set off a small flare to move this scene along?"
Solarstride didn't turn, but the corner of his mouth lifted. Sunbeam did glance back, amused.
Solarstorm stood there, a streak of living orange chaos. His hair was a tousled blaze of bright orange spikes in every possible direction; his eyes were the same Solar orange but glinting with mischief and too many ideas. His attire, while still perfectly within regulation, had an energy to it: orange coat with slightly flared tails, sleeves shoved to the forearms, sturdy orange boots that looked built for sprinting toward trouble and away from boredom.
"You're early," Sunbeam said. "We agreed on a planning session after sunset."
"It is after sunset," Solarstorm replied. "Barely. I rounded up."
Solarstride finally looked at him. "You received the agenda?"
Solarstorm patted the inside of his jacket. "Right here. The official title is: 'Post-Thanksgiving Sky Event – Proposal Review, Safety Requirements, and Ways to Prevent Solarstorm From Accidentally Redecorating the Upper Atmosphere.'"
Sunbeam chuckled. "I don't recall approving that subtitle."
Solarstorm grinned. "Solarlance suggested it. I added 'accidentally.'"
Solarstride shook his head. "The Sunrise Connection Initiative has food, houses, pathways, virtue trails, and lantern nights. One thing remains unfinished, General."
Sunbeam's orange gaze held a fond resignation. "The sky."
Solarstorm spread his arms at the twilight above Solvanairebolis. The last traces of daylight lingered, but already the first lanterns were casting their own oranges into the dark.
"You lit the ground, Sunbeam," he said. "You lit the plazas, the houses, the paths. Let me handle the heavens. A Thanksgiving season deserves one great finale. Not just fireworks—something... coordinated. Something hopeful enough that people look up and think, 'We really are entering a new era.'"
"And you will do it safely," Solarstride added.
Solarstorm held up both hands. "I am a responsible professional agent of controlled chaos." He paused. "With occasional supervision."
Sunbeam's smile widened. "Then we'll supervise together. The sky is yours for planning, Solarstorm—but it has to belong to everybody when it happens. Every state, every city, every out-of-the-way town that only sees us on news reports. I want them to feel part of it."
Solarstorm's eyes brightened. "A multi-state synchronized show."
Solarstride answered, "A multi-state synchronized promise."
"Then I," Solarstorm said, straightening with mock formality, "accept command of the Thanksgiving Skies."
He placed a hand dramatically over his orange-clad chest, then ruined the solemnity by adding:
"And I promise not to blow anything up that isn't on the list."
Sunbeam laughed out loud at that. "That is the most I can reasonably ask."
They went inside together to plan.
—
The "Skies of Thanksgiving" briefing room looked like someone had poured orange light into blueprints.
Holo-screens floated around the central table, each displaying a different region: Solvanairebolis, Solzenith in Lightwellmar, Solbloom in Solafleur, Solquaria Nexus on the coast, and a scattering of smaller towns and districts labeled in Sunwis' precise orange-highlighted script.
Solarstorm stood at the center like a conductor in a bright orange coat, eyes darting between the projections. Solarpuff sat nearby, legs crossed, chin in hand, watching his enthusiasm with a fond, measuring gaze. Solardye studied the logistics map; Solardale checked structural clearances around rooftops; Solarstream mapped tram and shuttle routes to recommended viewing spots; Solarstride sat with a stylus, ready to veto anything that smelled too dangerous.
Sunwis and Sunwise lurked near a console, fingers poised.
"All right," Solarstorm said, clapping his hands once. "We've turned Thanksgiving into a season. We've fed, housed, guided, and connected people. Now we give them something to remember when they close their eyes at night." He pointed to the Solvanairebolis projection. "Central sky show anchored here. But it has to ripple outward—light sequences visible over Solzenith's towers, reflections on Solquaria's water, orchard glows over Solafleur..."
Solardye interjected, "We must stagger energy consumption. Several states drawing heavy power simultaneously could strain the grid."
"And the fireworks themselves," Solardale added, "must be launched from safe platforms. No rooftops that cannot handle the stress."
Solarstorm nodded. "I'm not aiming for pure pyrotechnic madness. Think... layered. Fireworks, yes, but also lantern fleets, drone-lights, projection veils, reflective panels. Not just noise. Shapes. Symbols. Maybe even..."
"Words?" Sunwis suggested.
Solarstorm snapped his fingers. "Exactly. Imagine looking up and seeing 'YOU BELONG' in light over your city. Or the twin suns drawn in arcs that cross over different regions at the same timestamp."
Solarstride said quietly, "Words must be chosen carefully. We're not proclaiming perfection. We're reaffirming a promise."
Sunbeam, seated at the head of the table, spoke for the first time during this barrage. "What would you write, Solarstorm?"
Solarstorm thought for a moment. He usually had ten ideas loaded at once; slowing down for just one required a different kind of fire.
"'You're not alone,'" he said at last. "Short. True. No matter which city, which state, it should mean the same thing."
Solarlance, listening from the side, nodded. "It fits the Sunrise Initiative."
Sunpuff chimed in, "We can vary the second phrase by state. In Solafleur, maybe an outline of interlocking leaves. In Solquaria, waves of light on the water. But the core message stays the same."
Solarstorm pointed at her. "Yes. Emotionally intelligent chaos. That's why I need you."
Solarstream smirked. "And why we need to write down every single timing sequence so you don't 'improvise' mid-show."
Sunwise raised a hand. "We are already logging that suggestion under 'non-negotiable.'"
They worked for hours.
Solarstorm's temperament—so often associated with explosions and loud declarations—proved surprisingly suited to this elaborate coordination. He jumped from Solzenith's solar-tower reflections to Solbloom's orchard lanterns to a small town at the edge of Solamber Coast that had never had a proper fireworks display at all.
"Here," he said, zooming in on that tiny unnamed town, just a cluster of orange roofs and a little square. "This place gets something special. A slow show, not noisy. Soft arcs, gentle falling stars. People who've never seen more than a roadside festival will talk about this for years."
Solardale marked it down. "We'll send a mobile launch crew. I'll sign off on platform specs."
Solardye traced transit arteries. "We'll advise people not to overcrowd the central areas. Viewing points in every district. No one should feel they have to travel to Radiant Plaza to feel included."
Sunbeam listened, orange eyes shining with a quiet pride as his commanders coordinated.
"Just remember," he said finally to Solarstorm, "this is Thanksgiving's sky, not victory's. We're not showing off power. We're sharing warmth."
Solarstorm gave a short, sincere nod. "Understood."
—
The first test run took place over Solquaria Nexus.
It was a clear night on the coastal city. The sea lay flat and dark, waiting for reflected flame. Lanterns already lined the piers, casting dual paths of orange above and below.
On a secure barge anchored at a safe distance, Solarstorm stood in an orange windbreaker, hair whipped even wilder by the salty breeze. Sunwave, Sunmarin, and Sunhikari handled the maritime logistics; Sunbrass handed out earplugs "for comfort, not fear."
Solarlance spoke quietly into a headset. "All safety checks completed. Wind conditions within acceptable range. Civilian viewing zones secured."
"Copy," Solarstorm said, eyes fixed on the sky. "Begin sequence one."
From the barge, a controlled volley of small, bright flares arced upward, blooming into quiet orange blossoms that reflected perfectly on the water's surface. No deafening crashes, no aggressive colors—the show was gentle, like the city was exhaling light.
On the pier, a little boy in an orange jacket tugged his mother's sleeve. "Is this for Thanksgiving?"
"It's for us," she said softly. "Because we're still here. Because the General cares that we have something beautiful to look at."
Solarstorm triggered the next part of the test: a series of low, cascading firework "curtains" that fell in loose veils, mirrored perfectly on the sea. In the reflection, it looked like a gateway opening.
"And that," Sunmarin murmured beside him, "is Hope."
They logged the data, noted the timing adjustments, and moved on.
Next came Solafleur's orchard-edge show. There, in rows of trees hung with lanterns and wish-ribbons, Solarstorm calibrated aerial flares to burst high enough not to disturb the branches, their light overlaying the orchard's existing glow instead of competing with it.
Sunterra walked beside him between the trees.
"You're being very restrained," she observed.
He shrugged. "Restraint is just chaos on a diet. This is Thanksgiving, not the Battle of Ten Suns."
A small group of residents watched from a hillside. As the fireworks blossomed above in soft, rounded shapes, Sunleaf turned to him.
"They look like giant orange blossoms," she said.
"That's the point," Solarstorm replied. "This show has to feel like the land itself is celebrating."
Everywhere they went for tests, he did the same thing: adjusted the brightness down, softened the edges, aimed for awe over intimidation.
Still, not everything went perfectly.
In a suburban district near Solzenith, a test volley fired slightly out of sync. Two shells overlapped in midair, burst into an unexpectedly large bloom, and sent a wave of startled gasps through the watching crowd. No one was hurt—the safety protocols worked—but a baby in the front started crying, and an elderly man seated farther back lifted a hand to his chest, breathing hard.
Solarstorm's heart seized for a fraction of a second.
"Abort test," he said into the headset immediately. "No more tonight."
The crews obeyed without question.
On the ground, Solarstorm walked straight to the elderly man's side, orange coat flaring behind him. Sunpuff and Sunlass were already there, speaking gently, reassuring his family.
"I'm all right," the man wheezed. "Just... wasn't expecting that big one."
Solarstorm crouched so they were eye-level. "That is on me," he said plainly. "Not on you. This show is meant to comfort, not startle. I misjudged the threshold."
The man blinked. "You're... Solarstorm, aren't you?"
"In the orange flesh," Solarstorm answered. "I promise you: the final show will be softer. If you decide to watch, you'll see less 'boom,' more 'breathe.' And if you decide not to, that's all right too. We will not chase you with light."
The man gave a weak chuckle at that. "I'll give you another chance. Just... warn us if you put a giant sun in the sky."
"We'll do it gently," Solarpuff said, squeezing the man's shoulder.
Later, back on the transport, Solarstorm sat unusually quiet, watching test results scroll by on a console. Solarstride stepped into the compartment and leaned against the opposite wall.
"You reacted correctly," Solarstride said. "You stopped. You apologized. You adjusted. That's Humility and Courage."
Solarstorm ran a hand through his wild orange hair. "I don't want this to be another story where someone says, 'Beautiful, but it scared my grandfather,' or 'My child cried all night.' This Thanksgiving has been about pulling people closer, not pushing anyone into shadows with noise."
"Then re-write the show," Solarstride said. "We have time. The sky is patient."
Solarstorm exhaled slowly. "All right. Less raw thunder. More... storytelling."
He leaned forward, tapping the console.
"Sunwis," he said. "New parameters. Lower peak decibel thresholds. Fewer high-gun volleys. More low and mid-altitude patterns. Bring in drone-light configurations. I want the show to be readable from a hospital window without making anyone flinch."
Sunwis' voice came through, calm and approving. "Already working on it, Commander. We'll prioritize patterns that match the Sunrise Initiative: circles of light, joined points, words written slowly. Think... sky lanterns, not battlefield flares."
Solarstorm smiled faintly. "Exactly."
—
The night of the final show arrived.
Thanksgiving's "official" day was behind them, but the Sunrise season was still in full glow. The air over Sollarisca felt charged—not with fear, but with anticipation.
In Solvanairebolis, Radiant Plaza filled again, this time more evenly. People knew they didn't have to crowd the center; Sunrise volunteers had been guiding them for days to local viewing points, rooftops, parks, and riverbanks. The sky would belong to everyone, no matter where they stood.
On a high platform overlooking the city—far above the rooftops, with safety guards and reinforced rails—Solarstorm stood in full formal attire, bright orange coat buttoned, emblem shining faintly. Around him were consoles and holo-panels, but he wore no headset today. This show was pre-programmed down to the heartbeat; tonight, he was less a technician and more a guardian artist.
Sunbeam joined him on the platform, cloak stirring in the high wind. His orange eyes swept across the glowing city.
"They're ready," he said quietly.
"So is the sky," Solarstorm replied.
In Solzenith, families crowded rooftop gardens and balcony edges, orange blankets wrapped around shoulders. In Solafleur, people sat between trees, lanterns bobbing above rows of leaves. In Solquaria Nexus, piers were packed, the sea a dark mirror. In Solbloom, the town square was full, but not overflowing—plenty of room to stand, sit, breathe.
In a small inland town, people gathered in their humble square, some of them still marveling that the Supreme Commanders had bothered to include them at all.
At a hospital in Solvanairebolis, nurses quietly turned beds toward windows.
Solarstorm exhaled.
"Begin," he said.
Far below, launch crews and light drones responded in perfect synchronized obedience.
The first lights rose slowly.
Not in a crashing barrage, but in a gentle climb—small orange points ascending over each city, like lanterns let go by invisible hands. They rose and then stopped, hovering at different heights, waiting.
Over Solvanairebolis, the pattern formed first: dozens of orange lights in a great circle, with finer points connecting into a sunburst. Over Solzenith, lights lined the tops of towers, tracing their outlines like glowing veins. Over Solafleur, arcs followed the rows of trees. Over Solquaria, reflections doubled every point.
No one spoke for a moment.
Then, slowly, letters began to form.
In every state, in every city, in every little forgotten district, the sky wrote the same words in measured strokes of orange:
YOU'RE NOT ALONE.
Gasps rose like a second wave of light.
In Radiant Plaza, a child whispered, "Mama, the sky is talking."
In the hospital ward, an older woman blinked back tears as she mouthed the words.
In District 12-B, where the first Thanksgiving feast had been only a late afterthought, people looked up with expressions that were half disbelief, half aching relief.
On the little inland square, where they had never seen more than three fireworks at once, the phrase hung clearly, each letter burning steady rather than flashing and vanishing.
Solarstorm watched it all from the platform, the reflection of his own work glowing in his orange eyes.
Behind the words, new sequences unfurled: circles of light intersecting, showing people icons of joined hands. Gentle arcs crossing between imagined city outlines, suggesting connections they now knew really existed: shared policies, shared lantern nights, shared Sunrise houses.
Over Solafleur, light traced overlapping leaf patterns around the words. Over Solquaria, the phrase rippled like a wave, mirrored perfectly below. Over Solzenith, halo-like rings formed around the tips of solar towers, as though the structures themselves were blessing the city.
There were fireworks, yes. Low-voiced ones. Soft peonies of orange that bloomed without thunder, drifting down like falling brightness. Thin comet trails that traced slow lines rather than screaming streaks. Tiny starbursts that looked almost like someone had shaken a jar of fireflies into the night.
Solarpuff, somewhere down in the plaza, laughed through tears.
Solarstream, standing with new recruits on a training-ground hill, pointed up. "This," he said, "is what you protect."
Solardye, in a tram control center, watched his screens flick between maps and street cams. "Grid stable," he said into comms, pride hiding under his professionalism. "No outages." In a side channel to Solarstorm, he added, "Beautiful."
Solardale, on a Sunrise House rooftop, observed how the building's lines framed the sky. "They'll remember this every time they see these walls," he murmured.
Solarstride, in a stride-path park surrounded by everyday citizens, simply stood still and watched, his expression gentle.
On the platform, Sunbeam turned to Solarstorm.
"They're quiet," he said.
"The show?" Solarstorm asked.
"The people," Sunbeam answered. "It's awe. Not fear."
Solarstorm released a breath he hadn't quite realized he'd been holding. "Good."
Down below, a little boy gripped a folded virtue card in one hand. It read, in simple letters: HOPE – Believe that tomorrow can be kinder than yesterday.
He looked up at the sky, at the words written in orange fire:
YOU'RE NOT ALONE.
"Do you believe it?" his sister asked.
He nodded slowly. "I think... they really mean it."
As the final sequence began, the words faded and were replaced by a simple symbol: twin suns, drawn as two touching circles of light, their overlapping area glowing brightest. Around them, smaller points appeared—like tiny stars, like countless lanterns.
In every place, in every vantage point, the meaning was clear: the great powers of the world—the regimes, the leaders, the Supreme Commanders—were not meant to stand apart, but to overlap with the lives of ordinary people.
Solarstorm watched his own design complete its circuit. The final part of the show was deliberately soft: small lantern-drones descending slowly, turning into visible floating points that would drift low enough to be seen as they passed overhead, then dim and vanish.
"Thanksgiving," he said quietly, mostly to himself, "was the feast. This is the echo. A reminder every time someone looks up that the warmth didn't end at the table."
Sunbeam looked at him, pride and gratitude shining in his bright orange eyes. "You did well, Solarstorm."
Solarstorm shrugged, though his own eyes were suspiciously bright. "I had help. And I learned to listen when the sky said: 'Tone it down, Storm.'"
Sunbeam laughed softly. "That is Temperance."
"And this," Solarstorm replied, sweeping one hand toward the glowing horizon where hundreds of thousands of people stood under the same message, "this is Gratitude in orange."
They stood together, two figures in solid orange against a sky briefly remade in their color, listening to the chorus of quiet amazement rising from Sollarisca.
No shouting. No marching. Just people breathing in the same light and knowing, in their bones for one more night, that they were part of something vast and intentional and kind.
When the last lights dimmed and the stars reclaimed the sky, Solarstorm finally stepped back from the railing.
"Next year," he said, "we do something even gentler."
Sunbeam smiled. "You, gentle?"
Solarstorm smiled back, a little crooked.
"Thanksgiving changed all of us," he said. "Even the loud ones."
The last embers of Solarstorm's sky show were still fading when Solarpuff decided the night was not over.
From the rooftop of one of the Sunrise Community Houses in Solvanairebolis, she had watched the words YOU'RE NOT ALONE burn gently across the sky, reflected in a thousand orange-lit windows. The glow had filled her bright orange eyes until they shone like twin lanterns of their own. Her hair, a soft tumble of orange tied back with simple bands, fluttered in the high breeze as she leaned forward against the railing to drink in the reactions below.
Children pointing straight up and shouting, adults standing very still with their hands over their mouths, elders squeezing the fingers of whoever stood beside them—those were the moments she lived for. Explosions and architecture were impressive, but the expressions on faces, the loosened shoulders, the quiet little smiles at the edges of crowds... those were her battlefield.
Behind her, the rooftop door opened with a soft hiss.
"You're doing it again," Solarstream's voice said lightly.
Solarpuff did not look away from the streets. "Doing what?"
"Reading the whole city like a mood chart," he answered, stepping out beside her. The wind caught at his orange hair, but his gaze followed hers downward. "Is it acceptable?"
She drew in a long breath, then let it out slowly. "They're quiet," she replied. "Not stunned. Settled. That's better than cheering."
Solarstream's mouth curved. "Spoken like a true morale officer."
"Supreme Commander of morale," she corrected, puffing one cheek very slightly in mock indignation. "I refuse demotions."
He laughed under his breath. "What does your instinct say?"
Solarpuff watched a man in a work-worn orange jacket taking a photo of his family with the last of the floating lights in the background. She saw a group of teenagers who had been pretending not to care finally grab each other in an excited huddle. On one balcony, a lone figure lifted a cup toward the sky as if toasting it.
"My instinct says," she replied softly, "that tonight was a huge wave. Beautiful. Soothing. But waves recede. Tomorrow, some people will wake up and feel a little empty again. That's where I come in."
Solarstream nodded once. "I'll leave the rooftops to you, then." He clasped her shoulder briefly. "Do what you do best, Solarpuff. Remind them that this isn't just fireworks."
When he had gone back inside, she stayed a little longer, letting the last halo of orange dim and give way to honest stars. Then she pivoted on one heel, her bright orange coat flaring, and headed downstairs.
"Time to plan Thanksgiving for the hearts that are still tired," she murmured. "Round three."
—
The next morning, while much of Solvanairebolis drifted through a pleasantly sleepy holiday-lag, Solarpuff strode into Sunwis' analytics office with a cup of strong orange-spiced tea in her hand and determination radiating off her like heat.
Sunwis and Sunwise were already there, surrounded by floating charts and data streams. Lines, dots, and glowing graphs projected midair, showing attendance numbers, message engagement, Sunrise House usage, and dozens of other metrics.
"Commander," Sunwis said, adjusting his orange-rimmed glasses. "We have post-event data."
"Of course you do," Solarpuff replied. "Show me the feeling layer."
He blinked. "The... feeling layer?"
"Messages. Comments. Anecdotal notes from the Sunrise volunteers. Reports of people staying to talk after events instead of rushing home," she clarified, leaning her elbows on the console. "The numbers tell us how full the rooms were. I want to know how full the people were."
Sunwise slid a new panel into focus. "We've been tagging qualitative remarks," she said. Lines of text appeared:
"I haven't seen the stars reflected on the water like that since I was a child."
"My neighbor invited me to watch from her balcony. We barely knew each other before."
"It was beautiful, but now that it's over, I feel... restless. Like I want to do something and don't know what."
Solarpuff's gaze flicked quickly over the lines. A small frown appeared between her brows.
"There," she said, tapping the last one. "That feeling. Restlessness after beauty. If we don't catch it, it can curdle into loneliness again."
Sunwise nodded slowly. "You want to channel it."
"I want," Solarpuff said, straightening up, "a Thanksgiving specifically for the ones who held everyone else up. The staff, the volunteers, the shy people who were too overwhelmed to attend the big events, the ones who spent the night cheering for others but went home to quiet rooms."
Sunwis gave a soft, thoughtful hum. "A 'Gratitude for the Carriers' program."
She smiled. "Exactly. A softer, smaller Thanksgiving. No speeches. Minimal fireworks. Maximum genuine conversation."
Sunwise's lips curved. "You'll need spaces. Schedules. Lists of names."
"Solardale and Solardye will help with spaces and schedules," Solarpuff said. "You and Sunwis will help with the lists. I'll take care of everything else."
"By 'everything else,'" Sunwis remarked dryly, "you mean confidences, tears, laughter, unexpected karaoke, and four hundred cups of tea."
She winked. "See? You do understand the feeling layer."
—
By late afternoon, Solarpuff had turned her idea into motion.
In Solvanairebolis, she walked through the Radiant Citadel's lower halls with a handful of elites in tow—Sunlass, Sunleaf, Sunmusic, Sunhikari, and Sunivory—all in various shades of solid orange attire. Her own uniform was a touch more playful than some: a fitted orange jacket over a softer, flared skirt, knee-length, with matching orange boots that clicked lightly against the polished floors.
"In District 7," she said as they strode, "we'll use the Sunrise House main hall. Keep the door open, lights warm, no registration table. People who drift in should feel like they've walked into a living room, not a conference."
"And in 12-B?" Sunlass asked.
"The new square where Solarstream held the 'late Thanksgiving,'" Solarpuff replied. "Smaller lanterns, lower music, blankets on the ground. Let them lie back and talk while the sky returns to normal."
Sunleaf murmured, "We'll bring the herbs. Calming blends. Morning-after-the-fireworks tea."
Sunmusic grinned. "I'll keep the playlist soft. No drum solos. Promise."
"And we," Sunhikari said, trading a glance with Sunivory, "will make sure no one sits alone unless they really, really want to."
Solarpuff nodded approvingly. "Gently. No dragging people into the center. Just sit nearby, say hello, offer a second cup."
At the end of the corridor, Solardye and Solardale waited with tablets in hand.
"Spaces allocated," Solardye said. "We've slotted your 'after-Thanksgiving gratitude circles' into the Sunrise schedule for tonight and the next two evenings. No official broadcast. Word will spread through local channels."
Solardale added, "Community Houses in Solzenith, Solbloom, and Solquaria are also prepared. Smaller capacities, but intentionally so."
Solarpuff's orange eyes shone. "Perfect. Gentle waves instead of a storm. That's all we need."
She turned to her impromptu entourage. "Ready?"
They answered in a chorus of yes, ma'am, and excited nods.
"Then let's go remind Sollarisca that Thanksgiving isn't over just because the sky show ended," she said.
—
Her first stop was the Sunrise Community House in District 7.
By the time she arrived, the interior was already transformed. Sunivory and Suncliff had strung lanterns in a scattered pattern, leaving patches of shadow for people who preferred dimmer light. Sunleaf and Sunivy were setting out teapots and orange ceramic cups on low tables. Sunmusic's quietly hopeful playlist hummed in the background—soft melodies, nothing that demanded attention.
A few people had already trickled in. A tram operator still in partial uniform, his orange jacket draped over the back of a chair. A volunteer cook whose hands still smelled faintly of spices. A young woman who had helped manage crowd control in Radiant Plaza, now sitting with her back against a pillar, staring at nothing in particular.
Solarpuff entered without fanfare. She moved like a warm current, her presence immediately lowering the invisible tension in the room.
She approached the young woman first, crouching to bring their eyes level.
"May I sit?" Solarpuff asked.
The woman blinked, then nodded. "Of course, Commander."
Solarpuff settled on the floor beside her, tucking her orange skirt neatly. "What's your name?"
"Sunreli," the woman replied.
"You were in Radiant Plaza?" Solarpuff guessed.
Sunreli nodded. "We helped manage the lines for the feasts. It was... a lot. People were grateful. It felt good. But afterwards I just went home and... I don't know. It was quiet. Too quiet."
Solarpuff's expression softened. "Sometimes, after we hold everyone else up, the silence feels heavier than before. Like our arms are still braced for weight that isn't there."
Sunreli let out a shaky laugh. "That's exactly it."
Solarpuff reached for a nearby cup, filled it from the teapot, and offered it. "This is why we opened tonight. This is Thanksgiving for the ones who were too busy carrying trays and checking tickets to sit down. You get to talk, or not talk. Drink tea. Listen to other people breathe. That counts too."
Sunreli took the cup, fingers warming. "I kept thinking... I shouldn't feel this way. We did something good. I should be only happy."
"You are allowed," Solarpuff said firmly, "to feel two things at once. Proud and tired. Grateful and a little empty. Thankful and still wishing someone had asked how you were. That's why I'm asking now."
Sunreli's orange eyes filled, but she smiled. "Thank you, Commander."
Solarpuff smiled back, amused and kind. "Tonight, I'm just Solarpuff. Supreme Commander of Tired Hearts."
Across the room, Sunlass was coaxing a small group into a lighthearted conversation about the funniest Thanksgiving mishaps. Sunhikari had sat down with two elderly neighbors, letting them tell stories about past festivals. Sunleaf comfortably replaced empty teapots and adjusted lanterns so they cast flattering, gentle light.
At some point, a soft murmur started: a little circle near the center of the room where people, without prompting, began to share one thing they were thankful for that wasn't captured in the big speeches.
"I'm thankful someone saved me a piece of orange cake when my shift ran late," one said.
"I'm thankful my tram got unstuck in the tunnel, and the Supreme Commander walked us out himself," another added, clearly referring to Solarstream.
"I'm thankful my General reminded us that we're allowed to want love," said a third, voice trembling slightly.
Solarpuff listened, heart full, but did not take over. She drifted from circle to circle, offering an occasional joke to lighten a heavy moment, a nod when someone admitted something painful.
Later, in District 12-B's new square, she found a different mood.
People here were still adjusting to the idea that Thanksgiving belonged to them too. The lanterns were smaller, the space more compact. Blankets were spread on the ground, and clusters of residents lay back, looking at the normal, star-scattered sky as if comparing it to the memory of Solarstorm's lightshow.
Two teenagers whispered nearby.
"Do you think they'll do another big feast here next year?" one asked.
"Maybe," the other replied. "But even if they don't, we have this now." He gestured toward the modest setup. "I didn't know half these people's names last month."
Solarpuff slipped into their conversation as easily as a breeze.
"And now?" she inquired.
The teenagers startled, then flushed when they recognized her.
"Now I know at least... ten," one said. "Maybe twelve. It's weird. In a good way."
"Then Thanksgiving did its job," she said. "It gave you a reason to look up and a reason to look sideways."
They laughed, relaxing again.
"Commander?" a voice called from the edge of the square.
She turned to see a man in a work-worn orange coat—the same one who had tried to bypass a queue in Radiant Plaza, she realized—and his daughter. They approached shyly.
"I didn't... really understand, back then," he said. "The line, the rules, the fairness. But when Solarstride came here, and Solarstream did the late Thanksgiving, and now this... I get it more. It isn't about control. It's about making sure I'm not stepping on someone else just because I'm tired."
Solarpuff's eyes softened. "Understanding is its own kind of Thanksgiving," she said. "You're here. That already says a lot."
His daughter looked up at the stars. "The words in the sky," she said. "They sounded like they were for me. Is that silly?"
"Not at all," Solarpuff replied. "They were for you."
—
Her Thanksgiving did not stop in Solvanairebolis.
Over the next two days, Solarpuff took short hops to other states, bringing the same gentle aftercare wherever she went.
In Solzenith, she joined a low-key rooftop gathering where Solardale's newly built Community House hosted a "Gratitude Breakfast" for overnight workers. She arrived unannounced, rolled up the sleeves of her orange jacket, and helped Sunbrass and Sunrufus serve steaming bowls of porridge and sunfruit compote.
"You don't have to serve, Commander," a nurse protested.
Solarpuff smiled. "On paper, perhaps. In real life, I absolutely do."
In Solbloom, she sat under the faint lingering decorations of the harvest wheel that had given Solarstride his triple-7 moment. The townspeople had set up a circle of chairs in the orchard edge, and she listened as they spoke about how they planned to use their district-wide "luck."
"We're organizing buddy walks for people who don't like arriving alone to Lantern Nights," one woman explained. "If you sign up, someone meets you at your door."
"We're turning one of the prize shipments into 'welcome baskets' for new residents," an elderly man added. "No one moves here without someone knocking on their door within a week."
Solarpuff clasped her hands under her chin, eyes bright. "You're turning fortune into structure," she said. "That is the best use of luck I've heard all week."
In Solquaria Nexus, she joined a pier-ward after-shift circle where fishermen and dock workers sat with their backs against mooring posts, watching the same sea that had reflected Solarstorm's first test.
"The show was... quiet," one man said, thoughtful. "I expected more noise. I liked that it wasn't there."
"My daughter watched from the hospital," another added. "She said it felt like the sky was whispering instead of yelling."
Solarpuff tucked that word away—whispering. It suited the versions of Thanksgiving she wanted to cultivate.
—
On the third night, back in Solvanairebolis, Solarpuff finally held a gathering she had been thinking about since before the Radiant Plaza feast.
In a medium-sized hall of the Radiant Citadel, lit with indirect orange lamps and no official insignia banners, she invited only one category of person: those who usually stayed standing at the edges of rooms.
She had Sunwis and Sunwise quietly help identify them from event footage and sign-in logs: the elite who always volunteered but never sat; the officer who stayed by the door; the admin who made sure everyone else had plates but carried her own back to a corner.
They arrived nervously, expecting a briefing or a debrief.
Instead, they found a circle of chairs, a central low table with bowls of simple snacks, and Solarpuff herself sitting in one of the seats, very deliberately not at the top or the bottom of any arrangement.
"Please come in," she said, rising to greet them. "This is the 'Edges' Circle. Tonight, you are not here to work. You are here to exist."
Sunsam chuckled as he entered. "You make it sound like a difficult mission, Commander."
"For some of you," she replied, her tone warm, "it is."
Solardye stood in the doorway for a moment, clearly wondering if he should really be there. Solarpuff pointed at a chair.
"You count," she said. "You spent Thanksgiving tracking supply flows. Sit."
He obeyed with a quiet smile.
Solarstream appeared, leaning in. "Am I allowed?"
"You are not allowed to bring logistics questions," she said. "But you may sit and talk about anything else."
Solarstride arrived a few minutes later, looking faintly surprised to find himself on the guest list. "I was monitoring behavior patterns, not avoiding participation," he protested mildly.
"You walked the path between hearts," she said. "You are absolutely welcome to sit among them."
Even Sunbeam appeared, just as the last few seats were filling. He had left his coat and medals behind, wearing only a simple orange shirt and trousers. His bright orange hair was slightly mussed, his eyes a little tired but warm.
"Am I intruding?" he asked.
"Always," Solarpuff replied, but her smile made the words soft. "Sit. No speeches, General. Tonight you are simply one more person who needs to exhale."
He took a seat without argument.
They began softly.
Solarpuff did not ask anyone to share great confessions or deep traumas. She started with light questions.
"What was one small thing this Thanksgiving that made you laugh unexpectedly?" she asked.
Sunlass raised a hand. "When Sunsam tried to balance three trays in one hand and nearly reinvented aerial food delivery."
Sunsam groaned. "I told you that story was classified."
Solarstream added, "When one of the recruits at the training ground asked if the fireworks meant we were under attack, and then said, 'Oh. We're just under a hug.'"
Laughter rippled around the circle.
Little by little, Solarpuff nudged the questions deeper.
"What was something you were grateful for that you didn't say out loud at the time?"
Sunreli, now more relaxed than she had been in District 7, spoke up. "When Sunlass took part of my shift without telling me so I could actually eat."
Sunlass waved a hand. "It was selfish. I wanted an excuse to steal extra dessert."
Solardale said, "I was grateful that when I presented my first finished Sunrise House, the General did not comment on the minor asymmetry in the hallway. I know he saw it."
Sunbeam smiled. "I did. I chose to be grateful for the imperfection. It means humans live there."
Solarstorm, who had slipped into the circle at some point, added, "I was grateful that when my test went wrong, no one tried to pretend it was fine. We fixed it instead of hiding it. That felt... new. Good new."
At one point, the conversation skimmed close to vulnerability.
A young elite, Sunrila, hesitated, then said, "I was grateful for the words in the sky. But I was also... angry. Because part of me said, 'If we're not alone, why did it take so long to hear this?'"
The circle went quiet.
Solarpuff did not rush to fill it. She let the silence sit for a moment, soft and honest.
"That is a fair feeling," she said gently at last. "Gratitude and sadness can coexist. Sometimes when we finally receive what we needed, the old hunger protests before it accepts the new food."
Sunrila's eyes shone. "So it doesn't cancel my thankfulness?"
"Not at all," Solarpuff replied. "It deepens it. It reminds us to keep our promises, so fewer people have to wait as long."
Sunbeam watched her then, a look of quiet admiration on his face.
Later, as the circle gradually dissolved into small clusters and side conversations, Solarpuff stepped aside to the refreshment table to reset cups. Sunbeam joined her, lifting a teapot to pour more tea for someone who had just arrived late.
"You have done something important," he said quietly.
"I did what I always do," she answered, arranging orange cookies on a plate. "I padded the sharp corners of a very large day."
He smiled. "When I spoke about prosocialism and romanticism, I meant structures, policies, formal programs. But you..." He gestured subtly toward the soft-lit room, the relaxed shoulders, the gentle laughter. "You make sure the spirit of it doesn't seep away through the cracks. Morale isn't just statistics for you. It's... texture."
Her cheeks colored just slightly, a warm orange flush. "Someone has to make sure that when we say 'no one is alone,' it does not remain poetic."
He set the teapot down and inclined his head to her. "Thank you, Solarpuff. For making Thanksgiving safe to feel."
She huffed a soft, amused sound. "If the General keeps thanking us like this, the whole Solar Regime will turn into a puddle of emotional mush."
"Perhaps a stable, well-bonded mush," he said. "I'm willing to risk it."
"Then I suppose I'll keep at it," she replied, eyes glinting.
—
Much later that night, when the Citadel had gone mostly quiet and lantern light had softened into a gentle glow, Solarpuff walked alone along one of the high interior balconies that encircled a central atrium. Below, she could see a few late-working staff, their orange heads bent over consoles, and a cleaning crew humming quietly as they moved between rows of seats.
She stopped, placed her hands on the rail, and looked down with a fond, tired smile.
"This," she murmured to herself, "is my Thanksgiving. Not just the feast. Not just the fireworks. The quiet after. The people who kept standing. The ones who finally sat."
Her holo-communicator buzzed softly at her wrist. A small message from Solarstorm appeared:
"Report: No accidental upper-atmosphere redecorating. Also, someone in Solquaria said the show felt like a lullaby. I'm taking that as a win."
She smiled and sent back:
"Approved. Thanksgiving sky: successful. Hearts: will continue to monitor and overfeed."
Another message blinked in from Solarstream:
"Your 'Edges' Circle was a good idea. Recruits asked if we can have something similar for them after every major operation. You have created more work for yourself. Congratulations."
She replied:
"I accept my fate as Supreme Commander of Feelings."
Finally, a short, straightforward message from Sunbeam:
"Thank you—for turning my policies into evenings like this."
She did not answer that one immediately. Instead, she looked over the balcony again, at the scattered, ordinary lives moving through the Citadel—each one a little brighter than before, each one touched in some way by this extended, orange-hued Thanksgiving.
Only after a long, satisfied breath did she respond:
"We're not done yet. But for tonight, they are not alone. That is enough."
Then she straightened, smoothed her orange jacket, and turned toward her quarters.
Tomorrow there would be new worries, new data, new events to plan. There would be people whose loneliness would flare again, wounds that no single feast or fireworks show could heal.
But for now, Solarpuff let herself feel the quiet, deep satisfaction of a mission well tended: a Thanksgiving that had stretched beyond a single dramatic day into a living, breathing warmth woven through Solvanairebolis, Solzenith, Solafleur, Solquaria Nexus, and a hundred other places where people in orange hair, orange eyes, and solid orange attire were slowly learning to believe the words written across their sky.
You're not alone.
And in the Solar Regime, as long as she was there to watch over their hearts, they never would be.
While Solarpuff tended to the tired hearts at the center of Sollarisca, the warmth she helped kindle did not stay in Solvanairebolis alone. It spilled outward along tram lines and air routes, down highways and sea-lanes, carried in orange uniforms and shared stories. Across the continent and its islands, countless Solar Regime elites were living their own quiet Thanksgiving chapters—small, vivid scenes where Sunbeam's pro-socialism and romanticism were not philosophy, but lived behavior.
On Cosmott Island, the air over Solartropical still tasted faintly of salt and grilled fruit.
Solartropical's waterfront was a riot of orange—paper lanterns strung between palm-trunk posts, orange ribbons tied to railings, bright fabric awnings shading stalls. Under a long open pavilion, tables were lined in two neat rows, groaning under the weight of dishes from every part of the island.
Sunbrass stood at the end of one table in a bright orange apron, ladling steaming stew into bowls as fast as hands reached out. His hair, a deep copper-orange, was tied back in a messy knot; his eyes glowed like coals as he joked with the line.
"Next," he called. "One portion of 'You're Not Eating Alone Tonight' stew. Comes with optional side of unsolicited encouragement."
A fisherman in a faded orange vest stepped forward with a shy smile. "I'll take both, elite."
"Good," Sunbrass replied, filling the bowl generously. "You've earned it. The sea didn't take any boats this year. You and your crew helped keep that record. Eat."
A little farther down the pavilion, Sunlass moved between tables with a pitcher of citrus-sunfruit drink, refilling cups without asking, her long bright-orange hair braided down her back with tiny lantern charms woven into it. She stopped beside a family where an older woman stared at her full plate without lifting her fork.
"May I top off your drink?" Sunlass asked gently.
The woman blinked, then nodded. "I... I'm not sure I should be taking this much," she murmured. "Feels like I'm stealing from those who need it more."
Sunlass shook her head, eyes soft. "General Sunbeam didn't stand in Radiant Plaza and say 'some of you should feel guilty for accepting kindness.' He said no one eats alone by necessity. Your seat at this table is part of that. Please stay."
The woman's fingers trembled just slightly around her cup. "It's been a long time since I sat at a table with this many people."
"Then we're overdue," Sunlass said. "Consider this interest paid on all the lonely years."
Nearby, Sunwave—hair cut short, eyes bright as reflected sea—stood at the edge of the dock, directing volunteers as they helped late-arriving fishers tie off their small boats.
"Go eat," she told them firmly. "We'll watch the tide."
"But you're elites," one man protested. "You shouldn't have to babysit ropes."
Sunwave laughed. "We're elites of the Solar Regime, not glass statues. Tonight, pro-socialism means you sit with your family instead of your nets. That's an order."
On the outer bench of the pavilion, the quietest corner, a young elite with a crate of spare lanterns sat fiddling with their handles. Sunivy's orange hair fell in a soft curtain around her face until a small boy approached with a broken lantern.
"Miss?" he asked, hesitant. "Mine stopped glowing."
She took it gently. "You brought it back instead of throwing it away. That's excellent reflexes." She repaired the little light with deft fingers, then added a second lantern. "Take two. One for you, one to offer to someone sitting alone."
The boy's eyes widened. "There's a man on the end of the dock who keeps watching but not coming closer..."
"Then he's exactly the one," Sunivy said. "Thanksgiving isn't only food. It's the courage to carry one small lantern toward someone who isn't sure they're invited."
As the boy ran off, lanterns swinging, Sunbrass looked up from his stew line and met Sunlass' eyes across the pavilion.
"You've gone soft," he called, grinning.
"We're supposed to," she shot back. "Romanticism and pro-socialism, wasn't that the plan?"
He clutched at his chest theatrically. "You remembered the policy language. I'm in love."
She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks warmed a shade deeper. "Invite me to the next island festival properly and we'll discuss it."
People nearby laughed quietly, the kind of laughter that made the air feel safe. Somewhere, someone raised a toast "to General Sunbeam, who made this possible," and others echoed it, glasses of orange drink clinking together.
On another part of Cosmott Island, in Solarpanndum, a smaller, simpler gathering took place in a little square between orange-washed houses: an improvised "Lantern of Names" where Sunterra and Sunremi guided children as they wrote the names of people they were thankful for on strips of orange paper and hung them on a central frame.
"Can I write the General's name?" one girl asked.
Sunremi nodded. "You can. But also think about someone close, someone who touched your day. Pro-socialism starts on the street you walk every morning."
The girl bit her lip, then carefully wrote: "General Sunbeam, my grandma, the lady from the bakery who gives me the broken cookies for free."
Sunterra smiled. "Perfect."
Far from Cosmott, in Oranjukai State, large, the neon glow of Solarshickaiko Town thrummed under an orange sky.
Solarshickaiko's main arcade—lined with shops, gaming parlors, and tiny eateries—had been transformed for the Thanksgiving season. Banners quoted fragments of Sunbeam's speech about prosocialism: "Cities designed with plazas instead of walls," "Entry is not a privilege but a promise," "We will open doors, not close them." They fluttered between holographic signs advertising curry noodles and sunfruit pastries.
Under one of those banners, three elites had commandeered an empty kiosk. A hand-painted sign hung over their heads:
FREE TALK BOOTH – AWKWARD PEOPLE WELCOME
NO APPOINTMENT. NO PAYMENT. JUST SIT.
Sunsuna sat cross-legged on the counter, bright orange hair tied in looping twin tails, grinning down at passersby. Next to her, Sunnon occupied a folding chair, holding two steaming cups of tea. Sunbond—formal even when "off-duty," orange shirt immaculate—leaned against the side, arms folded.
"This feels like entrapment," Sunbond remarked. "Someone lured me here with promises of monitoring social experiments, and now I'm in a booth."
"It is an experiment," Sunnon said. "We're testing how many times an elite can say 'Hi, want to sit with us?' before their face falls off."
Sunsuna flashed a double peace-sign at a group of teens who were clearly circling the booth, pretending not to be interested.
"You two in the matching hoodies!" she called. "You've walked by four times. The fifth time we start charging you in compliments. Come sit."
They froze, then laughed and approached, cheeks reddening under the orange light.
"We're not very good at talking to new people," one admitted.
"Excellent," Sunsuna said. "Neither are we. That's why we're practicing."
Sunbond raised an eyebrow. "I'm perfectly good at talking to new people."
"You're good at interrogating new people," Sunnon corrected. "Different skill set."
As the teens sat, Sunbond's expression softened. "The General's romanticism," he said, "is not only about candlelit dinners. It is about teaching a generation that they are allowed to want company—and that the state will support structures for that. This booth is one such structure. Improvised, but valid."
One of the teens smiled. "Your way of explaining things makes my brain hurt. But in a good way."
Sunsuna leaned forward. "So. Tell us three things you're thankful for this week that are not food."
They thought, then began.
"Uh... my friend came back from another state and surprised me."
"The lady at the laundromat fixed my jacket zipper for free."
"And... the words in the sky. 'You're not alone.' It felt like they meant me."
Sunsuna's grin softened. "They did."
As the night deepened, more people stopped by. A shop clerk who always worked nights and rarely saw sunlight. A young man whose speed-dating registration had been canceled when he got cold feet; he sat now long enough to realize he wanted to try again. A married couple who admitted that they volunteered separately so often they had forgotten how to sit together in silence.
At some point, Sunsword and Sunleaf drifted past.
"You three have turned public mental health into a street stall," Sunsword remarked. "I approve."
"Go win people prizes somewhere," Sunsuna retorted fondly. "We've got hearts covered. You take the game machines."
Far above all of this, <Lightwellmar State, large> glowed like a circuit board of orange glass and light.
In Solzenith, the state's capital, Thanksgiving had taken on an urban flavor. Tower-top terraces hosted small gatherings; tram lines hummed with late-night traffic; Sunrise Houses tucked into high-rises offered "Skyline Circles" where residents could see both stars and city.
On the observation deck of Solzenith's central tower, three elites stood leaning on the transparent rail: Sunquartz, Sunpetal, and Sunflare. All dressed in orange, of course—Sunquartz in a utility jacket smeared with faint traces of holo-wire residue, Sunpetal in a soft orange dress and matching scarf, Sunflare in a sleek orange coat with reflective trim.
Below them, the city glittered. Slowly, lights in windows flicked off as people went to sleep—but in many buildings, shared lounges and rooftop gardens still glowed with clusters of awake silhouettes.
"You see that?" Sunpetal said, pointing. "Five years ago, that block had almost no common spaces. Everyone went from work to box to bed. Now look. Shared terraces, corner cafés, community rooms with the lantern icon over the door. You can feel the pro-socialism in the architecture."
Sunquartz smiled faintly. "Solardale and his team did solid work. But we wouldn't know it mattered if people didn't step into those rooms."
Sunflare nodded toward a particular building. "That one. The eighth-floor lounge. You can see from here—someone strung extra lanterns, pulled the couches into a circle. They're doing it. They're using the space as it was intended."
"And there," Sunpetal added, pointing at another tower. "Someone has a small balcony garden. Two people out there. That's romanticism in micro-scale."
"Strictly speaking," Sunquartz said, "the General defined romanticism as broader than—"
"Shh," Sunpetal interrupted, bumping his shoulder with her own. "Sometimes it just means 'two people holding hands over tea in an orange-lit corner.' We're allowed to enjoy the scene without footnotes."
He laughed, a quiet, slightly sheepish sound. "Fair."
Behind them, the door slid open. A small group of young engineers and data analysts stepped out, holding disposable mugs of hot orange-spice chocolate. They hesitated when they saw the elites.
"Is this... reserved?" one asked.
Sunflare turned, leaning back casually against the rail. "Reserved for whoever dragged themselves up here after a long shift and still had room in their hearts to look at the city," he said. "Which includes you. Come on."
As the younger staff joined them, the conversation naturally turned to Sunbeam's speech.
"I didn't think I would care about the romanticism part," said one analyst, adjusting her glasses. "I figured, 'That's for other people.' But when he said, 'If you want friends, we will help you find them'... I felt something crack."
"I thought pro-socialism meant forced gatherings," another admitted. "But the way it's unfolding, it's... options. Doors open. Invitations without pressure."
Sunpetal smiled as she listened, her orange eyes bright. Without making a big show of it, she slipped her hand into Sunquartz's. He tensed for a fraction of a second in surprise, then relaxed, fingers curling around hers.
"You two..." one of the younger staff said knowingly.
"We are illustrating policy," Sunpetal replied, tone perfectly serious, then ruined the effect by giggling. "The policy of 'it is not illegal for elites to be happy.'"
They stayed up there longer than planned, watching Solzenith breathe, tracing the lines of light that connected Sunrise Houses, parks, tram hubs, and small sanctuaries. Pro-socialism and romanticism looked like many things from up high: tangled, uneven, imperfect. But it was undeniably growing.
In Radusolarradd State, fields and towns glowed with a more grounded sort of beauty.
Near Solarbloom, where the harvest had been particularly abundant, Thanksgiving had become inseparable from giving back.
Sunfarm—a broad-shouldered elite with sun-browned skin and a shock of unkempt orange hair—stood in the back of a storage barn, overseeing a line of crates being filled with produce. Sunleaf, Sunhikari, and Sunrila moved down the line, checking lists, tying orange ribbons around the handles of each crate.
"These go first to the outskirts," Sunfarm said. "Houses with older residents who can't walk to market easily. Then to single-parent homes. Then to boardinghouses with lots of workers away from family."
Sunleaf nodded, her bright orange hair tied up in a loose knot, a pencil tucked behind one ear. "We added little notes," she said. "Simple ones. 'You are not forgotten.' 'We are glad you're here.' It's small, but..."
Sunhikari smiled. "It's like putting a lantern inside the crate."
Sunrila reached for another ribbon. "I wrote one that just says, 'Eat until you're full. You deserve it.' Is that too much?"
"It's perfect," Sunfarm said.
They loaded the crates onto a small convoy of orange-painted carts and trucks. Volunteers—some elites, some local citizens—climbed aboard. As they rolled out along the dirt roads, the sky overhead reddened with sunset, then deepened toward orange twilight.
At the first stop, an elderly couple stepped out onto their porch, surprised.
"We didn't sign up for any program," the man said.
Sunleaf hopped down lightly. "This isn't from a form," she said, holding out a crate. "It's from Thanksgiving. General Sunbeam said nobody eats alone by necessity. We're keeping the promise for him."
His wife eyed the orange crest on Sunleaf's sleeve. "You're elites," she said slowly. "Shouldn't you be... elsewhere? Important meetings?"
Sunhikari answered with gentle humor. "This is important. Besides, if we stay in meetings all the time, Sunpuff yells at us about morale. We're terrifying in battle, but she's more terrifying in staff briefings."
The old woman laughed, softened, and reached out to touch the ribbon. Her fingers lingered on the handwritten note. "Thank you," she whispered.
As they moved on to the next house, Sunleaf walked beside the cart instead of riding. Sunhikari matched her pace, boots crunching on the gravel.
"You looked like you were going to cry back there," he said quietly.
She shrugged, eyes on the road. "I just... It hits different when you see it up close. We talk about 'the people' as a big glowing mass from the Citadel. But then you see one porch, two tired faces, one crate of food, and you think: this is it. This is prosocialism, right here."
He nodded. "And romanticism?"
She gave him a sideways look. "Romanticism is when someone walks next to you on a long, dusty road instead of riding in the comfortable cart."
He flushed, orange eyes flicking away for half a second. "I see."
She smiled, then, and bumped her shoulder lightly against his. "Thank you for walking with me."
"At your side, Sunleaf," he replied. "Always."
They delivered until the stars came out, until every crate found a door and every ribbon found fingers to untie it. In some places, they were invited in for tea; in others, people simply waved from windows, shy but grateful. Thanksgiving in Radusolarradd smelled of earth, fresh fruit, and worn wood warmed by lantern light.
In Helisollbust State, in the city of Solarisphirasheer, Thanksgiving took the shape of written words.
Along the central riverwalk, railings had been wrapped in fine orange netting. Stalls offered strips of orange cloth and simple markers. Above, a sign announced:
WALK OF THANKS
WRITE SOMETHING YOU'RE GRATEFUL FOR.
TIE IT WHERE OTHERS CAN READ IT.
Sunshield and Sunlindsey patrolled the walkway, both in lighter, more relaxed versions of their uniforms. Sunshield, tall and steady, had his orange hair pulled back in a short tail; Sunlindsey's hair was cropped short and tousled, her eyes alert but kind.
They watched as people stopped, wrote, hesitated, then tied their cloth to the rails. The messages ranged from simple to profound:
"Thankful my son came home safe from training."
"Thankful my neighbor knocked on my door during Lantern Night."
"Thankful I had the courage to sign up for the first speed-friendship event."
"Thankful the General said out loud that wanting love is not selfish."
One man, middle-aged, stood staring at a blank strip of cloth, marker hovering.
Sunlindsey approached slowly. "Stuck?"
He gave a rueful smile. "I'm not used to... this. To putting feelings on display."
"You don't have to," she said. "You can take it home."
He shook his head. "No. I want to try. It's just... My wife passed years ago. I used to think Thanksgiving was for families. I was going to write her name and stop there. But..."
He glanced up at the sky.
"The words the other night," he said. "You're not alone. I kept thinking about them. I still miss her. That won't change. But maybe... I could be thankful that there are people still here too. Neighbors. Colleagues."
Sunshield stepped closer, voice gentle. "Then write that. Both truths can live on the same piece of cloth."
The man took a breath, then began to write, slowly:
"Thankful for my Lira, whom I still love. Thankful that my neighbor invites me downstairs for tea now. Thankful that the Solar Regime cares if I am lonely."
His hand shook by the last line. When he tied the cloth to the rail, Sunlindsey gently placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Thank you for sharing it with us," she said.
He blinked rapidly, then nodded. "Thank you for making a place where I can."
As evening deepened, the rails transformed into a tapestry of orange strands fluttering in the river breeze, each one a small, concrete act of prosocialism and romanticism: acknowledgments of connection, grief, hope, and desire for closeness.
In dozens more cities and towns—Solpricott on Brightsol Island, Solustshire City in Heliacalisunn, Solprime City in Brightquu, Solendara in Solbermell—similar scenes unfolded.
In Solpricott, Sunmusic led a "Gratitude Jam," inviting anyone with an instrument to join a casual circle where the only rule was "no judging, only cheering." People who had never played outside their bedrooms found themselves coaxed into simple melodies, neighbors clapping in time.
In Solustshire City, Sunridge and Sunquill hosted a "Pay-With-a-Story Café Night," where drinks were free if you sat with someone you didn't know and shared one memory you'd never told a stranger before. The room buzzed with low, intense conversations, punctuated occasionally by laughter or shared tears.
In Solprime City, Suncliff organized a "Lantern Exchange," where people wrote a wish for someone else's happiness and traded lanterns until each person carried a light bearing someone else's hope. Groups left together afterward, sometimes continuing the conversation far beyond the event.
In Solendara, a small Sunrise House turned its courtyard into a "Quiet Touch Garden," where romantic couples and close friends could stroll slowly among orange-lit plants, benches placed just far enough apart that each felt semi-private. Simple signs read: "Handholding Welcome. Silence Allowed." Couples walked, hands intertwined, hearts steadied by the knowledge that their affection was not only permitted but gently encouraged.
Everywhere, in different accents and phrasings, people mentioned the same core ideas:
"General Sunbeam doesn't want us to just survive."
"He said he wants plazas instead of walls."
"He said we are allowed to want love."
"He doesn't want anyone to eat alone by necessity."
The Thanksgiving season had begun as a grand feast and sky show, but in the days and nights that followed, it settled into smaller, more durable forms: a stew shared on Cosmott; a free talk booth in Oranjukai; a rooftop tea in Lightwellmar; a crate on a Radusolarradd doorstep; a fluttering ribbon in Helisollbust.
Across Sollarisca, random elites—Sunbrass and Sunlass, Sunivy and Sunleaf, Sunnon and Sunsuna, Sunfarm and Sunhikari, Sunshield and Sunlindsey, Sunmusic and Sunridge and dozens more—lived out the policies their General had declared. They turned pro-socialism into invitations, romanticism into gentle chances for hearts to step closer. They washed dishes after community meals, sat on cold steps with strangers who needed to talk, linked arms with shy citizens walking into Sunrise houses for the first time.
The twin suns rose and set over cities with names dense with "Sol" and "Sun," over states and islands stitched into a continent bright with orange light. And in that warm, spreading glow, Thanksgiving stopped being a date on a calendar and became, quietly and insistently, the everyday language of how the Solar Regime chose to exist:
Grateful. Connected. Tender without shame.
A world where, thanks to Sunbeam's vision and his elites' countless small choices, more and more people could believe that when they reached out—whether for a hand, a cup, a conversation, or a lantern—
someone would be there.
By the time the last of the Thanksgiving lanterns were taken down in Solvanairebolis, the story of Sunbeam's speech and Solarstorm's gentle sky show had already spread far beyond Lightwellmar State. Tram drivers told it between stops, ship captains repeated it over the intercom as their vessels crossed bright coastlines, and children re-enacted "You're not alone" with glow-sticks in alleyways.
Sunbeam refused to let that warmth cool into a mere rumor.
He left the Radiant Citadel again—this time not for a single plaza or a single city, but for a long, deliberate journey across the entire continent of Sollarisca.
He did not travel alone. On the first morning, as the twin suns rose over the rails of Solvanairebolis Central, all six Supreme Commanders assembled on the platform in full bright orange: Solardye with his folded maps and analytic stare, Solardale already checking structural readouts on the transport's hull, Solarstream leaning comfortably against a pillar with a thermos in hand, Solarstride standing straight as a drawn line, Solarstorm bouncing slightly on his heels with contained energy, and Solarpuff smiling like a walking lantern.
The special train waiting for them was painted in rich, solid orange from nose to caboose, emblazoned with the emblem of the Solar Regime at its head. A banner over the platform read:
"THANKSGIVING CONTINUES – SUNRISE CONNECTION TOUR."
Sunbeam stepped aboard last, turning once to address the crowd that had gathered just to see them off.
"This isn't just a victory lap," he called, voice carrying easily over the noise. "It's a promise check. We're coming to see you. All of you. If you felt invisible before, get ready to be seen."
The cheer that rose after that followed the train out of the city like a comet-tail.
As the orange landscape blurred past the windows, the Supreme Commanders spread out through the cars. Solardye and Solarstream turned one compartment into a moving operations room, holo-maps floating above the table. Solarstorm knelt in the aisle with children from a military family, drawing diagrams of fireworks on a napkin and explaining which ones "made your chest go boom" and which ones "made your heart go warm." Solarpuff walked car to car, checking on nervous passengers and shy travelers headed to their first Lantern Nights in other states.
Sunbeam moved among them all, never quite settling, his presence a steady pulse of orange warmth.
Their first major stop was back on familiar ground—Lightwellmar State—but not in Solvanairebolis itself. Instead, the train slid to a halt in a smaller city down the line: Solpathra.
Solpathra had watched Thanksgiving mostly through screens. Its residents had lined up on balconies and in little squares, staring at the sky as the words YOU'RE NOT ALONE formed above their heads, but they had not expected the General himself to set foot on their modest platforms.
Yet there he was, stepping off the train with his cloak caught by the wind, orange eyes bright, all six Supreme Commanders fanning out behind him.
The platform was oddly silent for a moment, as if no one quite believed this was real.
Sunbeam broke the spell with a simple wave and an easy grin.
"Solpathra," he said, "I came to say something that should never be reserved for capitals: thank you."
He spoke not from a grand podium, but from the edge of the platform itself, one boot on the painted safety line, close enough that people could see the small creases at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.
"Your trams carried people to feasts in other towns," he said. "Your farmers shipped food to Radiant Plaza. Your workers kept the power grid steady when Thanksgiving lights burned late into the night. You were not background. You were foundation."
Then, because prosocialism was never just theory with him, he added:
"And tonight, here, in Solpathra, we host the first out-of-capital Sunrise speed-dating and speed-friendship evening. No camera crews. No staged testimonials. Just you, in your own city, meeting each other under your own lanterns."
Laughter and murmurs rolled through the crowd.
A man called out, "General, will you be there?"
Sunbeam's mouth tilted. "I will walk through," he said. "But if I sit at a table, I'll distort the results. People might pretend to like orange uniforms more than they truly do."
The crowd laughed louder. Beside him, Solarpuff was already sending instructions to local organizers, and Solardye was marking the event on his rapidly expanding network map.
Solpathra's Lantern Court that night was packed. Long tables were broken into small islands, each with a simple timer and a stack of conversation cards that read things like: "Tell me a time you felt truly seen," or "Describe the best orange sky you've ever watched."
Sunbeam walked the perimeter with Solardale and Solarstride, offering brief greetings and light teasing.
At one table, a woman with calloused hands confessed to her partner for the evening, "I almost didn't come. I thought speed-dating was for younger people. For... others."
Her partner, a middle-aged tram mechanic, shook his head. "The General said it's for anyone who wants not to be alone," he replied. "That includes us."
Sunbeam did not interrupt. He simply let the moment exist, the quiet success exactly what he had hoped for.
The next days blurred into a warm, vivid sequence of cities and states.
On Cosmott Island, he walked barefoot with his boots in his hand along Solartropical's shoreline, listening to Sunbrass, Sunlass, Sunivy, and Sunleaf describe how their community feasts had turned into weekly neighborhood potlucks even after the official holiday.
Titanumas Character Alias Codex...
"We thought people would come once for the free food," Sunbrass admitted, leaning on a crate. "Now they show up with dishes of their own, General. They're trading recipes like secrets."
Sunbeam smiled. "That's prosocialism in casserole form."
In Oranjukai State's Solarshickaiko Town, he visited the free talk booth where Sunsuna, Sunnon, and Sunbond had continued to run "awkward people welcome" sessions even after the holiday week ended.
Sunsuna waved him over exuberantly. "General! Come sit—no titles, just one of the rotating awkward participants!"
"If I sit, this whole half of the arcade will faint," Sunbond muttered, but even he had to hide a smile.
Sunbeam perched on the edge of the counter, legs dangling, and listened as a young man haltingly explained that he had just attended his first speed-friendship event and had left with three potential friends and one crush.
"Is that allowed?" the young man asked, face bright red. "Feels greedy."
Sunbeam shook his head. "In this regime, affection is not a finite resource," he said. "Be gentle. Be honest. But if your heart has grown enough to hold four new people in one night, I call that success."
In Radusolarradd State, in the outskirts around Solarbloom, he joined Sunfarm and Sunhikari on one of their crate-delivery evenings. He personally carried a box up a rickety wooden stair, knocking on a door where an old man answered with visible surprise.
"General Sunbeam?" the man rasped. "This is... surely you have grander places to be."
Sunbeam smiled and shifted the crate in his arms. "Tonight," he said, "this balcony is my grandest place."
He set the crate down and stepped back so the man and his granddaughter could open it together, revealing fruits, bread, and a folded sheet with the words:
YOUR SEAT AT THE TABLE WAS NEVER IN DOUBT.
YES, WE REMEMBERED YOU.
In Helisollbust's Solarisphirasheer, he walked the riverwalk and read the fluttering orange strips on the Walk of Thanks. One cloth caught his eye:
"Thankful that I believed 'You're not alone' enough to sign up for the next Sunrise speed-dating. Scared, but thankful."
He stood there longer than his security team liked, one gloved finger resting lightly on the knot.
Solardye approached, quiet.
"You cannot attend every event personally," the commander reminded him gently.
"I know," Sunbeam replied. "I just wanted to feel the texture of this knot. Someone tied it like they were shaking. And still, they tied it."
He straightened.
"Make sure we have counselors at that next event," he added. "Soft voices. No loud music at the start. We must be as kind to courage as we are to fear."
The Sunrise Connection Initiative spread faster than even Sunwis' models had predicted. New Lantern Nights appeared on calendars across Sollarisca. Community Houses reported not just attendance, but regulars. Speed-friendship sessions became as normal as fitness classes; speed-dating evenings produced their first official couples, some of whom sent shy messages to the Citadel thanking the General for "state-sanctioned butterflies."
Everywhere he went, Sunbeam repeated the same core idea in different words:
"You are not a problem because you are alone. But if you wish not to be alone, we will stand with you until your hand finds another."
He said it in crowded squares and small town halls, on factory floors and school rooftops, in Sunrise Houses and at dockside gatherings where Sunwave and Sunmarin had lined up lanterns like stars fallen to earth.
He praised elites by name—Sunbrass and Sunlass and Sunivy and Sunleaf, Sunmusic and Sunridge and Sunquartz and Sunpetal and many more—publicly acknowledging their local efforts so that pro-socialism and romanticism never felt like vague edicts from far away, but like the lived choices of neighbors and familiar faces.
Titanumas Character Alias Codex...
Weeks later, when the orange train glided back into Solvanairebolis, the city met him not with a single explosive cheer, but with a deep, sustained roar of welcome that felt more like a heartbeat than a slogan.
He addressed the crowd from the Radiant Citadel balcony one more time, all six Supreme Commanders at his back, lines of elites below like a sea of bright orange.
"Sollarisca," he said, "you have taken a holiday and turned it into a habit. You have turned feasts into weekly dinners, fireworks into rooftop tea, policies into invitations. I am proud of you, but more than that—I'm grateful."
He paused, eyes sweeping over faces.
"As long as I wear this uniform," he went on, "I will continue to defend your right to gather, to love, to seek hands in the dark without being shamed. We will continue to build structures so no one is outcast unless they are simply wandering between circles by choice—knowing they can step in at any time."
He lifted his hand in that now-familiar half-salute, half-invitation gesture.
"Keep meeting each other," he said. "Keep filling these orange nights with voices. Let prosocialism be your default, and romanticism your courage. The Solar Regime shines brightest when you shine for each other."
When the speech ended and the lanterns began to glow again for the evening, Sunbeam finally withdrew to his private quarters, the noise of the city fading into a soft hum.
His personal chamber at the top of the Radiant Citadel was simple despite its height: a wide desk scattered with reports and handwritten letters from citizens, a couch piled with orange blankets, a large window looking out over Solvanairebolis where the twin suns were dipping toward the horizon.
He sat on the edge of his bed, uniform jacket folded over a chair, white shirt sleeves rolled up, orange hair falling slightly into his eyes. The room light was dim; the glow from the window painted him in gold.
His communicator chimed softly with the day's final report from Sunwis and Sunwise. He skimmed the summary—attendance numbers high, loneliness index trending down, early relationship-support centers seeing more foot traffic from couples looking for guidance rather than crisis.
It was good. It was work. It would never be finished.
He set the device aside, then picked up a smaller, more personal one: his private phone.
The wallpaper was a simple dual emblem: the golden sun of Sollarisca crossed with a crescent moon on a field of deep blue.
He opened a message thread labeled:
"Lady Moonbeam – Lunna 💙🧡"
For a moment he just looked at the existing messages—the last one sent late the previous night: a picture of Solarstorm's sky show from his own perspective, captioned: "Tried not to compete with your moon."
Her answer had been a simple, amused: "You could never. But your little lights are cute."
Sunbeam smiled at the memory and began to type, thumbs moving steadily.
"Dear Moonbeam," he wrote. "Thanksgiving on Sollarisca is slowly settling into the bones of the continent. The people are talking more. Walking together more. My Supreme Commanders are exhausted in the best way. I have watched strangers become friends in the span of three lanterns, and I have watched the bravest of them sign up for speed-dating with hands that would not stop shaking. I told them that courage is welcome even when it trembles."
He paused, considering, then continued.
"I spoke so often about 'no one being an outcast' that I started to hear my own words echo. I realized how many nights you must have patrolled your own balconies while your people slept, trying to keep your moonlit country safe and unseen wounds quiet. I wonder what a Lunar Thanksgiving would look like. Blue lanterns? Silent walks? Late-night confessions under your endless sky?"
He added a small orange-heart and blue-heart emoji pair, then finished:
"I miss our philosophical arguments. When you have time, tell me how Lunna is doing. I suspect your people have their own ways of healing loneliness that my suns could learn from. 🌞➡️🌙"
He attached a short video clip from Solpathra's speed-dating night—faces blurred by privacy filters, but laughter audible, the sound of multiple conversations overlapping in a chaotic, happy rush.
Then he hit send.
For a moment, nothing happened. The city outside shifted from gold to deeper orange to the first hints of night, stars beginning to pierce the veil.
Then, three little dots appeared on the screen.
Typing.
On the far side of the world, under a totally different sky, Lady Moonbeam stood on a balcony of deep stone carved above one of Lunna's moonlit cities.
Her uniform was as perfectly blue as his was orange: coat, cap, gloves, boots, all in shades of night, emblazoned with the silver crescent of the Lunar Regime. The full moon hung behind her like her personal emblem, washing the rooftops of Lunartopia in pale light.
A breeze tugged at her long dark-blue hair as she raised her own device, the screen's warm glow soft against the cool night.
Sunbeam's message scrolled before her eyes.
By the time she reached the part about trembling hands at speed-dating tables, she was giggling quietly, one hand covering her mouth. The stern, commanding mask she wore for her officers melted away, revealing the softer expression she reserved for exactly three things: the quietest citizens of Lunna, small animals that wandered into her courtyards, and Sunbeam's absurdly earnest reports.
"Always the romantic, you orange fool," she murmured fondly.
Her thumbs began moving.
"Dear Sunbeam," she typed. "Your continent sounds as if it is glowing so brightly I can almost see the reflection from here. Lunna has been watching your broadcasts. Some of my citizens roll their eyes at your talk of speed-dating. Some look thoughtful. Some stare at the blue floor and secretly check the new Lunar 'Moonlight Meet' registration forms I quietly authorized this morning."
She paused, glancing over the balustrade.
Below, the dark domes and spires of Lunartopia rose like silhouettes against the star-strewn sky. Moonlit canals reflected silver. In distant plazas, blue lanterns bobbed as patrols moved; somewhere, a soft chorus of night-shift workers' songs drifted upward.
"My people carry different shadows than yours," she continued in her message. "They are quieter about their loneliness. It hides in the spaces between verses of songs, behind closed shutters, in the way someone stands just outside the ring of lamplight. But I have received your challenge—though you did not frame it as one. If your suns can learn to sit together, my moons can learn to do the same."
She added a tiny crescent emoji, then:
"Send my respect to your Supreme Commanders and your tireless elites. I will begin our own... experiments. Expect reports. And perhaps, when our schedules allow, we will compare results in person under a sky that is half orange, half blue."
She hovered over the send button for a heartbeat, then added one last line:
"Thank you for reminding the night that it, too, can host feasts. 💙🧡"
She sent the message.
Far above Lunartopia, the moon seemed to glow a little brighter. In the streets below, a patrol of Moon Soldiers laughed at some shared joke, the sound echoing softly off stone.
Lady Moonbeam slipped her device back into her coat and turned to face the interior of the palace, where maps of Lunna's states and cities waited on her strategy table: Lunartopia, Lunarbliss, Lunargopa, Lunartamarin, and countless smaller towns and outposts whose loneliness she knew all too well.
Her blue eyes sharpened with resolve.
"If he can flood a continent with lanterns and awkward speed-dating," she said to herself, amused and determined, "then I can teach my people that the night is not just for standing guard alone."
She stepped inside, cloak rippling like a shadowed wave, already calling for Moonwis and Moonwisdom to bring her reports on Lunar social habits and the first trickle of 'Moonlight Meet' applicants.
Outside, the moon sailed on, serene.
On a distant orange continent, General Sunbeam lay back on his bed, phone resting on his chest, reading her reply with a grin that no one else would see. Somewhere between Sollarisca and Lunna, invisible lines of warmth stretched across sky and sea—between sun and moon, between two leaders quietly conspiring to make their worlds less lonely.
The lanterns in Sollarisca's plazas flickered. The blue lamps of Lunna's balconies glowed.
And the story of Thanksgiving on Titanumas, Solar and Lunar both, paused on the brink of a new chapter—
to be continued under the light of the moon.
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