Dawn on the southern coast arrived in silence, as if hesitant to disturb the oppressive stillness.
In Iron Hearth, morning was always heralded by the shrill blast of factory whistles and the roar of engines splitting the sky. But here, there was only the sound of the surf—rhythmic, constant, like the tireless heartbeat of a titan. The air felt heavy and sticky with salt, while a low mist crept over the water's surface, concealing whatever mysteries had washed ashore.
Rianor was awake long before the first streak of orange touched the horizon. His notebook lay open on his lap, quill in hand, yet the tip remained suspended in mid-air. He sat in silence, letting his thoughts drift among the sea foam breaking in the distance.
"Tsk. Not sleeping again?"
