Dawn arrived gray over Arven.
The fog hung low between the city's towers, slowly swallowing the aristocratic rooftops and narrow stone streets as if the kingdom itself were trying to hide what would happen that night.
Inside Damon's mansion, no one had truly slept.
The library remained illuminated by the last candles of the early morning. The smell of melted wax, cold tea, and old paper permeated the air while maps, reports, and lists remained scattered across the large central table like remnants of an intellectual battle fought to the point of exhaustion.
But the weariness no longer mattered.
Now there was direction.
Now there was a plan.
Damon stood before the main window watching the city slowly awaken below the hill. Carriages began to cross the central avenues. Merchants opened their shops. Servants traversed the streets carrying boxes and fabrics.
Arven continued to function normally.
And that was the most disturbing thing.
