Outside the city, the morning light spilled across the earth.
The corpse of the White Dragon lay across the wasteland, its scorched scales still emitting wisps of smoke, the air filled with the aromatic char of dragon meat.
Soldiers moved around it, carrying saws and ropes, stripping away usable parts. The clash of tool blades against scales rang out, occasionally mixed with a shout or two.
Inside the city, in the courtyard of the main fortress, Sword Saint Puki crouched on the stone bricks, tentacles wrapped around the sword hilt, slicing and retracting, movements calm and unhurried, engaged in his daily practice.
Inanna sat under the porch, her fingertips holding a small flame, whispering in conversation.
Deep within the main fortress, Lorenzo was sitting across from Number Ten.
He had been sitting there for a long time. Several open volumes lay strewn across the table, notes with ink still wet scattered to the side.
