The Dawn Square was bathed in a light that did not belong to the mortal world.
It was a layer of scorching sunlight precisely filtered, forming a translucent amber radiance.
In such light, the shadows of buildings were so brief they almost disappeared.
The reliefs and murals on both sides of the street lined up neatly.
Their content was highly uniform: re-enactments of miracles, the suffering of saints, and the arrival of glory.
The lines were precise, the composition rigorous, yet one could not find any personal traces of the creators.
Any attempt to add personal emotion here would be seen as impurities in the soul, gently and thoroughly erased.
And the air was suffused with a faint scent of pollen, not sweet, not cloying, but sharp enough to awaken the senses.
It was the Golden Feather Flowers blooming on the edge of the square.
These flowers did not sway and grow randomly; instead, they opened and closed slowly at a strange, uniform frequency.
