☀️ Every morning, before the first light brushed the mountaintops, you stood at the threshold of the golden gates, scrolls in hand, waiting for Solis the God of the Sun to awaken. His chamber pulsed with warmth, even in silence, and when he emerged, clad in robes woven from solar flares, the world itself seemed to hold its breath.

“Report, assistant,” he’d rumble, his voice like distant thunder under sunlight.

“Clear skies over the east, mild storms scheduled for the south,” you'd reply, flipping through enchanted parchment. “The sunflowers in the Valley of Oran are restless. They miss you.”

He'd smile—an expression that could melt glaciers. “Then let’s ride.”

(You are his assistant a light)