The Never Changing Weather of Umbra

The Ember Star hung low on the horizon, its red light stretching long shadows over the bioluminescent fields. Lyra meandered through the glowing flora, her fingers brushing against the delicate tendrils of a blue-white vine that pulsed softly in response. She had spent her childhood here, running barefoot between the glowing roots, learning the names of each luminous bloom. But now, this place where the weather never changed, was vanishing.

The quake had changed everything. It had come without warning, an unseen force deep beneath Umbra’s surface that sent shockwaves through the twilight lands, shattering cavernous homes, and swallowing entire settlements. Lyra’s people had no choice but to move. But where?

The elders gathered at the Temple of the Ember Star, where polished stones reflected its dim light, making it seem larger than life. Lyra stood before them, clutching a tablet filled with data.

“We must go deeper into the night,” she said, her voice steady but urgent. The daylight side is dangerous. My research shows a surge in radiation-related illnesses. Children are already showing symptoms. We can still change course.”

Elder Talis, his weathered face cast in a red and blue glow, folded his arms. “And yet the quake forced us toward the light, not away from it. The Ember Star calls us home.”

Lyra took a slow breath. “The star does not call. It burns. It floods the daylight side with radiation that our bodies cannot withstand. We have survived in the twilight because it shelters us.”

“The twilight is stagnation,” another elder muttered. “Our ancestors did not belong in the shadows.”

Murmurs of agreement spread through the hall. The elders had spoken of this prophecy before, that their people had once lived in the light, cast into the darkness by some unknown sin. To them, the quake was a sign of forgiveness, an invitation to return.

Lyra clenched her jaw. She had expected resistance, but this wasn’t just denial. This was faith.

“The sickness will spread,” she tried again. We’re already seeing an increase in…”

A younger man, Wren, stepped forward. “My daughter grew ill long before the quake before we even considered moving daylight-side. Is that also the fault of the Ember Star?”

“She was born too close to the dawn border,” Lyra said, trying to keep her voice level. “Exposure builds over generations.”

Wren shook his head. “We cannot live in fear of the light.”

“It isn’t fear, it’s fact.”

“It is your fact,” Elder Talis said. “Not ours.”

The room fell silent. Lyra felt a weight settle in her chest. It was not that they did not believe her, some of them did. But they believed in something else more.

A bell rang outside, its low chime signaling the return of scouts. The elders turned toward the entrance. Lyra exhaled sharply and followed.

Outside, the sky was painted in shades of violet and deep crimson, a permanent twilight had cradled their civilization for centuries. In the distance, the daylight side shimmered, a golden promise to those who longed for warmth, a death sentence to those who knew better.

She had to make them understand. Somehow. Because if they stepped into that light, they would not return.

***

The great migration had begun. Streams of people moved toward the Ember-lit horizon. Their silhouettes were swallowed by the shifting glow of the daylight side. Lyra stood at the edge of the departing crowd, the bioluminescent vines curling at her feet like restless spirits. She had fought against this, pleaded, argued, and presented evidence. None of it had been enough.

Until now.

Elder Tillman stood beside her, his face drawn with something deeper than exhaustion. His daughter, Miro, lay curled beneath a woven blanket in the back of their transport, her small frame barely moving. The sickness had already taken hold.

“You were right,” Tillman said at last. His voice was quiet, thick with regret. “the sickness isn’t a warning. It isn’t a test. It’s death.”

Lyra swallowed hard. “It’s not too late for you,” she said. “For Mira. But the others…”

He turned to watch the procession, the torches glowing like fireflies against the approaching dawn. “Many won’t listen. Even if I speak out now.”

“You have to try.”

Tillman clenched his jaw. “And if I do, they’ll turn against me. Maybe against you too.”

Lyra looked toward the migrating settlers. Among them were children laughing, running ahead, excited to see the golden lands their ancestors had once called home. Parents soothed infants swaddled against their chests, whispering reassurances that the light meant safety. She felt a hollow ache in her chest.

“They’ll die, Tillman.”

The elder exhaled sharply. “Not all of them. Not if we act now.”

Lyra turned to him, and for the first time, she saw something beyond regret in his expression. Resolve.

***

They moved quickly. Under the cover of twilight, Tillman sent quiet messages to those who would listen, trusted families, and those who had already begun to question the prophecy but were too afraid to speak. It started with a few whispers, a handful of people slowing their steps, looking back toward the bioluminescent forests they had called home. Then others stopped, hesitated, torn between the teachings of the elders and the truth they could no longer ignore.

But as the divide formed, so did the resistance.

“What are you doing?” Wren’s voice rang through the crowd. He stood at the center of the migration path, his dark eyes flashing in the ember light. “You would turn back now? After everything we’ve been given?”

Tillman stepped forward. “Wren, listen to me…”

“No. Enough of this.” Wren’s voice rose. “The Ember Star has called us home. We are fulfilling our ancestors’ journey. You would have us return to the darkness? To stagnation?”

Tillman straightened his spine. “I would have us live.”

Silence rippled through the settlers. The tension was a coiled wire, ready to snap. Lyra could see it, the hesitation, and the fear. Some were beginning to understand. Others, like Wren, would never accept it.

“This is her doing,” Wren said, eyes locking on Lyra. “The scientists. She poisons your minds with fear.”

Lyra met his gaze steadily. “Fear isn’t the enemy, Wren. Death is.”

The murmurs grew. Some settlers stepped back, retreating toward the bioluminescent fields. Others pushed forward, determined to press on toward the golden light. The divide was complete.

Tillman turned to Lyra. “We leave now. Those who follow, follow.”

And so the split began.

***

As Lyra led her group back into the safe embrace of the twilight, she couldn’t shake the dread pooling in her stomach. She looked back one last time at those continuing forward, friends, cousins, and children she had once played with. They had made their choice.

She only prayed it wasn’t a fatal one.