FRESH NEWS FROM THE SHORES arrive in the morning. Dire news, which I don't fully understand when it reaches my ears. But like a cigarette tub carelessly thrown down a ravine in California, the news hit the cobbled streets like wildfire. And soon enough, the ears of every trader, soldier, and child burn in effect.
It's pretty early in the morning, the clouds above still fluffy orange from the dawn, and I am enjoying the gorgeous backdrop from the promenade of my bedroom's balcony; the whole empire laid out like strokes of one masterful deity before my eyes. A steaming porcelain cup rests in my covered hands, and I sip every now and then from Yennara's sweet brew. When I'd woken this morning, she was gone. And I'd woken before the Bell Tower could toll.
