Night in Eastmarch had never felt this heavy.
In Iron Hearth, darkness was a long-conquered enemy. Magitech streetlights always hummed with a steady blue glow, bathing every corner of the city in consistent light. There, night was merely a technical intermission before the factory engines roared back to life and Maglev trains streaked across the skyline. But here, in the midst of an endless prairie, night was the absolute sovereign. No mana lamps, no chimney smoke. There was only a scattering of stars that looked like shards of glass deliberately tossed onto a black velvet canvas.
Rianor Sudrath sat alone on a flat rock, distancing himself from the circle of the campfire. In his lap, an ancient mana compass vibrated softly. Its needle was restless; it twitched, spun slowly, stopped abruptly, then resumed its frantic shivering. The dim blue light from the device reflected off his spectacles, which had slipped slightly down his nose.
