In a decree issued by the Royal College of Natural Philosophers, the celestial privatization of sunlight has been attributed to a catastrophic excess of black bile now swirling within the celestial spheres. Lead philosopher, Dr. Wilfrid the Wobbly, cites an exact ratio of 17 drams of solar phlegm owed quarterly to the Crown Exchequer, meticulously calculated after hours of deep deliberation over spilt mead and enchanted parchment.
As the sun is now officially for sale, the common serfs find themselves relegated to the 'iron tier' of astronomical access, which grants a mere two heartbeats of dawn before the toll bell rings mournfully to herald their return to eternal gloom. One serf, when asked about his plight, choked on a wilted cabbage leaf and declared, "It matters not; I once saw a ray of sunshine for two heartbeats. Worth every heartbeat, I say!"
Meanwhile, feudal lords are embroiled in heated negotiations over tiered eclipse licenses, with some even petitioning the Astral Chancery to review the daylight ban. Such petitions, now enshrined as the official explanation for the restrictions, highlight the utter absurdity of the situation. With solar dealers contracted to sell additional noon minutes at inflated prices, the official broadsheet has already begun listing indulgences that promise 'forty winks under the blessed sun' from licensed relic merchants, with no refunds available.
In this increasingly convoluted celestial marketplace, perhaps the real darkness stems from ledgers rather than the spheres.
