Aturs, Year of Severus, 16, I.R., the 7th day of Winter, Arteria Capital
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The sound of clanging iron coming from the workshop was deafening. But it was just another day for those who had lived and slept near it for a couple of years. Prince Arterius had been living near the Arterian Workshop for more than 2 years now. The obnoxious sound of metal was nothing new to him. To him, it sounded like heartbeat waking him up for another creative day inside his cramp-spaced office.
He rose up from his wooden bed, a far cry from the lavish cushioned bed he had in the palace. There were no aetherite-lit baubles or fancy machinations on his floor and ceilings. The room was just another room. There was a small table on the side of his bed where he could do his writing, a small lamp to light his dark room at night and a shelf overflowing with books and scrolls he compiled from his research.
