A faint, golden light filtered through the canopy above, glancing off the twisted leaves that cloaked the entrance to Devotia’s sacred eye-shaped hollow.

The Devotians, tiny as mice but proud in their devotion, scurried along the curved walls of the hollow, their dried-leaf garments rustling softly with every step. The hollow’s circular outline formed a natural amphitheater, the center a polished earthen floor, worn smooth by countless ceremonies.

At the very center, perched awkwardly on a short wooden stool held aloft by two soldier-like villagers, Vule the Smart made his grand entrance. He leaned precariously on his crooked staff crowned with the Sacred Seedfruit, wobbling with every movement, and his stubby legs dangled far below the edge of the stool.

"Rejoice for the new day, people of the flawless DIVINE EYE! ! For I am VUUuuuULEE the sMaRt!” he bellowed, voice quivering with exaggerated pride. The single vast eye in his face-blade scanned the crowd, blinking slowly, deliberately, as though each wink contained a secret judgment. He flailed one arm like a conductor of invisible winds, nearly toppling off the stool twice before regaining balance.

The Devotians bowed low, their chants stirring as one. “Praise the Divine Eye! Praise the Divine Eye!”

Vule leaned forward, his stubby legs kicking for emphasis, his spire catching the morning light as he spoke with incredible speed.

“We thank the Divine Eye for this new day! For the sunlight, for the fruit, for the air in our lungs, yes! Even for the pebble underfoot!" He took in a deep breath. "Let us begin! oh devoted ones! Calling!” he spoke with finality.

The Devotians began trilling their tongues and chanting. The soldiers shifted uneasily, ensuring Vule stayed upright. His eye blinked slowly, then darted side to side with exaggerated curiosity, as though tasting the words of the villagers. He swayed, comically top-heavy, but every movement carried a forced grandeur that made the tiny Devotians both tremble and giggle.

Then, with a final, dramatic lurch, he raised his staff high, and the Devotians began their morning chants, voices echoing against the hollow walls: low, rhythmic, unwavering — a ritual of devotion, repetition, and the subtle fear of falling out of line. Vule flopped backward slightly, as if exhausted by his own performance, then righted himself with a theatrical cough. The ceremony had begun.