Twilight had settled over Val-Khorat by the time Ren and Mira climbed the winding stone stairs to the upper castle walls of the Grand Meridian Bastion.
The ascent took them through the quiet, transitional terraces where the red-brick foundry district met the classical white-marble gardens of the Sun-Crown quarter. In the courtyards below, the evening lamps were being lit. Ducal lamplighters with long brass poles walked side-by-side with solar-guard torchbearers, igniting alternating rows of yellow coal-gas flames and bright, golden solar globes. From the open windows of apartments and restored villas alike, the comforting sounds of domestic evening drifted upward on the breeze. The clatter of clay pot spoons against iron pots, the laughter of children being called in from play, and the low, murmuring conversations of families sitting down to their evening bread.
The walk from Tanner’s Row to the northern heights took them through the heart of a city learning how to breathe again.
Ren Prime adjusted the leather straps of his scribe’s bandolier as they crossed the lower canal bridge. His body was stiff, bruised from the violent struggle atop the Loom’s shuttle. The dysbaric chill in his chest gave an occasional twinge of stone sharpness. But for the first time in weeks, his mind felt grounded. Inside his breast pocket, nestled against his ribs beside the cold, heavy weight of the Speculum, the blue linen notebook rested like an anchor. Whenever a rogue whisper from an unlived life fluttered at the edge of his mind—the memory…
