Rain had fallen on Keating City for three days without stopping. It was a cold, persistent rain that rolled in off the wide grey surface of Lake Tisgar and settled over the rooftops of the grand city as though it had no intention of ever leaving.
Midwinter's Night had come and gone, and in the north of the Kingdom of Gaal, the roads would be buried beneath snow by now. But here in the river basins of the south, snow was a rare sight even in the depths of winter. Instead, cold rain became the constant companion of the city's residents, and a wet chill that crept through wool and leather alike, settling into the bones of anyone unfortunate enough to be caught out in it.
