The Thousand Splendid Suns Novels & Stories

I’m not a gloomy person by any means, but when everyone thinks of you as this ray of sunshine, some high expectations come along with that, and I don’t like to disappoint people. Why do I have to be a ray of sunshine for everyone? When do I get to just be Aurora Williams: human being? _______________ Authors Note: To anyone familiar with my previous work, I will go ahead and tell you that this is nothing like what I've done before. I've written this book to challenge myself as a writer. Also, there are some rape scenes that may trigger some readers, so keep that in mind before you begin reading. The book is yet to be edited so some slight adjustments will be made in the future for redundanci

Kemi’s voice was the first thing that broke through the static. I blinked against a sudden, blinding spike of gold. It wasn't the artificial blue light of a cartel quarantine field or the violent violet of a data-surge. It was the sun—a real, unfiltered sunrise breaking over the Lagos-Aethelgard harbor, painting the oil-slick waters in brilliant shades of amber, copper, and rose.

Solas stood amidst the burning wreckage, the Tear of the Sun pulsing in his hand like a dying heart. The sheer intensity of the light began to melt the stones beneath his feet, turning the ruins into a lake of liquid gold. "I am the Sun!" Solas screamed, his voice a distorted, metallic screech. "And you... you are nothing but a stain on my world!" He leveled the crystal at me, and a beam of pure, white-hot divinity erupted. It was enough to vaporize a city.

Evelyn’s POV When the palace finally comes into view through the carriage windows, I forget to breathe for a moment. I forget to breathe. It is beautiful. The Southern palace rises like part of the oasis itself; white stone glowing beneath the sunlight, surrounded by flowing water and gardens bursting with green. Gold glitters from the high domes overhead. It looks like something out of a fairy tale. “It’s called the sun castle,” Zahra speaks up, voice filled with the same awe that’s flowing through me.

I squinted and gave the bomb expert a half-smile. "There’s no need to waste time with words.” "Just do your thing, and quick." He nodded and got down to business with his tools. I licked my back teeth. Great. Now of all times I was dying for a smoke. The afternoon in Safrana? It was blazing hot. I had been standing in the blazing sun for what felt like an eternity, and it seemed like the sun was trying to cook me alive.

"This is Solan, son of the shadow and the sun. And I swear to you—by every stone of this Citadel and every beat of my heart—he will grow up in a world where he never has to lift a sword to prove he belongs here. The horizon is ours, and our tomorrow is eternal!" The plaza erupted. The cheers that followed were deafening—a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated joy, music, and weeping gratitude that rose up toward the sapphire sky like a living prayer. The horns played a triumphant, harmonious tune, the drums a constant, joyful beat, and from the terraced gardens hundreds of white doves and golden solar-birds rose into the air in a breathtaking dance of light and shadow.

In my sixth year of running an inn in Rimevale, I'm diagnosed with bone cancer. I leave the inn in the hands of my fiancé, Eric Jones, and head to Varenia with nothing but an old enamel mug. Once I'm there, I start a livestream called "My Last 100 Sunsets." Every day at 7:00 pm, I turn the camera toward the snowcapped mountains and make coffee just out of frame. On my 31st livestream, a comment suddenly catches my eye. "Wait. Does that mug at the edge of the frame have a V-shaped chip in it?" Six years ago, when a blizzard left us stranded in the mountains, I kept that same mug filled with hot spiced cider for Eric all night. The chat explodes. "That's Alice Graham from Veylune Inn!"

The rooftop lights have dimmed without being asked. Somewhere in the walls a soft voice is humming the lullaby I sang to children who may only exist in code. I am not afraid. Somewhere north of nowhere, a valley is still green. Somewhere a man with storm-grey eyes still says yes a thousand times every morning. Pomegranate. See you in December. The diary ends. The last page is pressed with the empty rind, stained the exact colour of forgiveness. (End of interludes)

“What’s happening?” “Open your eyes.” She did, but his hand still covered her sight, flashing everything in golden-orange light. “Now, what do you see?” The illumination revealed the place she’d been standing in. Green hills and tropical trees spread all around her, wildflowers in bloom dancing over the vast meadow. She looked up and saw the deepest blue heavens she had ever seen, with the fluffy clouds flying slow and easy. The harsh sun, however, shone the brightest—and it was expanding its size, as well as the growing heat in her eyes.

As dawn's first light emerged, the morning sun, resembling a blazing sphere of fire, gracefully ascended the sky, brushing it with a spectacular palette of deep crimson and shimmering gold. With the sun’s ascent, a figure, Silas Kane, the marginally younger of the Kane Alpha twins, found himself immersed in the serenity of the new day. He stood with a stillness that contrasted with the slowly awakening world around him, closing his eyes momentarily, allowing the gentle warmth of the sun's earliest beams to caress his visage.