The ancient enemy of great realm is not the barbarian at the gate. It’s the setting of the sun.
For six thousand years, human settlement on the frontier had ground to a halt the moment twilight fell.
In Grey Crag, twenty-eight thousand citizens pulled back into windowless stone apartments, breathing the choking black smoke of mutton-animal fat candles and rancid whale-oil lamps.
A single tipped grease cup could reduce an entire wooden artisan quarter to ashes in forty minutes.
Giles walked through the crowded alleys of the central Night Market, a padded canvas tool bag slung over his shoulder.
Beside him walked Toby Karr. It carried a wicker basket filled with small, delicate spheres of clear glass cushioned in sawdust.
Behind his eyes, the test model screen was tracking the town low-voltage backup circuits branching out from Substation Alpha.
“The glass must be evacuated to ten to the minus fourth torr, Toby,” Giles explained, picking up one of the glass globes.
