Underground tremors hummed through the granite foundations of Gu Ning. It shook straight through the soles of Lu Chen’s straw sandals.
High above the city roofs, the sky had curdled into the color of a fresh blood wound.
The blood moon hung directly over the Cangwu River, swollen and diseased. It cast a greasy crimson sheen across the curved black tile roofs and stone low roof walls of the country capital.
In the southern wards, the night air had transformed into an icy swamp.
A thick, creeping mist rolled through the alleyways. It carried the sharp, sweet stench of rotting river animal fat and stale canal silt.
Then, from the Northern Citadel, the great warning bells began to toll.
GONG.
GONG... GONG.
