The rain had stopped by morning.
For the first time since The Dominion's attack began, the sky above Vhal-Sar was clear. The crimson moon lit up the city, and a cold wind blew in from the sea, carrying the smell of smoke, salt, and blood.
Simon walked through the streets beside Seraya.
Neither of them had slept.
The city was already working.
In the southern districts, Daegrin craftsmen were tearing down the rotted beams of the warehouses and hauling fresh timber up from the harbor. Their hands glowed faintly as they worked, and the new wood fitted together with barely a sound. On the docks, soldiers were dragging beast carcasses into piles with ropes and hooks, while others scrubbed the blood from the paving with buckets of seawater.
High above them, the amber dome of the Varn residence still bore the long crack that ran from its center to its edges. A dozen workers hung from ropes along its surface, studying it in silence.
Nobody was shouting.
Nobody was laughing, either.
