Qaqortoq Station was far from the architectural grandeur of Iron Hearth. There were no artistic steel arches or rows of crystal lamps to please the eye. Its roof consisted only of rough gray stone slabs supported by old wooden pillars—some parts appeared cracked with age, yet they remained sturdy enough to bear the weight of the melting remnants of snow. Creeak... the wood groaned occasionally as a strong wind swept across the platform.
Rianor stepped down from the carriage, his boot soles immediately met by a stone floor covered in a thin layer of crystal dust. The air here felt different; a dry, biting cold that pierced the tip of the nose, carrying a sharp scent of minerals and damp earth. In the distance, the rhythmic clanging of metal from the mining area sounded like a heavy, constant heartbeat—Ting! Pang!—a pulse that never ceased.
