The eastern horizon began to pale, the first threads of dawn unraveling the night's ashen veil. A heavy fog clung to the city of Savadra like a ghost reluctant to leave, turning stone and spire into fading silhouettes. Above, the sun strained behind the haze, smothered and sickly—like a flame buried beneath the ashes of an old war.
Kasmer stood by the shuttered window of the room they had claimed. He watched the capital stir. He had not slept, and it showed. The air inside was sharp with cold and tinged with the scent of soot and old metal—a breath of the forge clinging to everything.
Nasser groaned as he rolled from his bed, rubbing his eyes. "It is not even bright yet. The guards of the Norse estate will chase us. Who in their right mind would visit so early in the morning? Tell me we're not walking to the Norse estate?"
"We are," Kasmer said, strapping on the leather bracers beneath his cloak. "No banner. No carriage. No notice. We arrive as men who demand nothing."
