The third day dawned with a soft, persistent rain. In Silverport, rain was a meteorological event to be managed, its water captured and processed, its potential for disrupting transit logged as an economic variable. In Aethelburg, it was a sigh of relief. Finnian stood under the stable's eaves and watched it fall, washing the dust from the streets, pattering a gentle rhythm on the leaves of the public gardens, beading on the warm stone of the Seed-Shard in the square. The city seemed to lean into it, drinking it in.
His body protested as he moved. The ache was a deep, settled thing now, a constant companion. The blisters on his palms had begun to harden into the promised calluses. Roran's proof. He flexed his hands, the new toughness a strange, satisfying sensation. He was adapting. The stress was creating growth.
