A sun to squint at
The clouds went soft, the tracers went round, the storm grew real thunderheads — and all the while a big yellow crate hung over the island, the last box left in a sky that had outgrown them. Today the sun rises round.
White-hot at noon
Look up at midday and there's a small, blinding disc in a halo of glare, just as the real thing looks when you glance at it too long. Look closely and it's brighter in the middle than at the rim. Its glare hangs round it so it reads as the brightest thing in the sky wherever it is in your view.
It's also the same size everywhere. The old crate grew and shrank as you flew across the map; the new sun sits fixed in the sky however far you fly, the way the real one does.
An ember on the horizon
As the day wears on the sun changes colour. The lower it sinks, the more air its light crosses, and it burns down from white to gold, from gold to orange, and at the waterline to a deep red ember you can look straight at. In its last minutes it squashes a little on the horizon, wider than it is tall, and a golden glow spreads out along the skyline around it.
And it goes down *behind* things now. On the Brick Sea it sinks into the water, half a disc on the horizon and then gone. Over the island it drops behind the ridges. Clouds drift across it too.
Storm days
On storm rounds the overcast veils it: the clean disc goes soft and dim, a pale smudge behind the cloud, for as long as the storm lasts.
Fighting into the sunset
At golden hour, look toward the sun: anything flying between you and it turns into a black silhouette on the glow, wings, tail and all.