Dawn in Iron Hearth broke with a streak of orange slowly creeping from behind the ridges of the eastern mountains. Its light reflected off the oily surface of the river, lending color to the plumes of factory smoke that never slept.
Roland Sudrath stood tall at the city gates even before the sun had a chance to bathe the tin roofs with its light. He wore his finest diplomatic attire—deep blue with silver embroidery on the collar, crisp without a single wrinkle. His hair was meticulously slicked back. There was nothing flawed about his appearance, yet his fingers constantly kneaded the cuffs of his own jacket. It was cold. And he knew it wasn't because of the morning dew.
Beside him, Grimm stood like a statue, his posture still as hard as a rock even as age began to pull his shoulders downward. Two Nightshade personnel stood guard in silence, their black uniforms seemingly absorbing the brightening dawn.
