The small kitchen porch behind the Ferry Landing was quiet in the late evening, lit up by the soft amber glow of the spatial sky-slit resting against the rear back kitchen wall. Rain had begun to fall again across Lathmere, drumming steadily on the slate roofs and washing the coal dust from the gutters into the cobblestone courtyard. Inside the porch, the five newly appointed directors of the Lowbank Maintenance Committee sat around the scrubbed deal table, their mugs of boiled tea cooling beside the ledger books.
Mira Os sat at the head of the table, her horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, a fresh page of town thick parchment spread before her. She dipped her steel dip-pen into the jar of black dark oak-ink. She looked across at the four faces gathered under the timber rafters. The damp chill of wet stonework seeped in from the foundation doorstep, mixing with the rich aroma of stewed cabbage and mutton broth from the soup kettle.
On the corner of the table sat a basket containing a thick sourdough crust. It Eren broke into five pieces and passed around the table. The simple, humble bread was a reminder that while the grand masters debated in gold-trimmed halls, the people of Lowbank lived by daily sustenance, shared fire, and mutual defense.
