They walked into the harbor in the gray, bruising light of early morning. The political seat of power for the entire Confederation was still unaroused from its deep, heavy sleep. No curious faces perched up from behind the tightly shuttered windows to peer down at them; no blacksmith's furnace roared its scorching breath into the receding night, nor did any merchant shout their wares to attract the attention of a sleepy populace.
The Call was seemingly dead. Dead, barren, and trapped in frost of winter.
Perhaps it would have been vastly better for the world if the island had truly been a graveyard, Harlon reflected bitterly. That would have been a infinitely preferable fate to an island made entirely of treachery, backroom daggers, and shifting plots. The moment Harlon believed he had finally grasped the strings of a game, the truth only revealed itself to be a clever veil hiding an even deeper, uglier secret.
