Under the coming dawn, the waterfall roared relentlessly.
A ceaseless, pounding thunder that battered the air and shook the stone. Mist rose in great white plumes where the falling water met the pond below—and in the early light, the spray caught fire. The sparkling surface reflected the gold and rose bleeding across the horizon.
At the center of it all, where the water current was the strongest, a single rock broke the torrent.
Sitting on that rock was a figure.
He was looking up at the coming dawn, humming a tune that strangely could be heard even though the waterfall roared around him as if something was reflecting the waterfall's roar away and amplifying the tune.
His form was draped with a black cloak edged in gold thread that caught the light.
Blood-red gems dotted the fabric; on the shoulders, the sleeves, the deep hood, everywhere—glinting with the slow patience of watching eyes. The waterfall hammered down around it, yet the cloak did not stir, nor the mist touch it.
