The days that followed passed with a fragile peace in Nocture, like morning fog draping the city, ready to vanish at any moment beneath a strong gust of wind. The sun rose and set as usual, its light slipping through the thick mist rising from dead soil, reflecting softly off the death crystals embedded along the black stone roads.
The city sang with a familiar rhythm: the echo of dwarven hammers ringing from newly built forges in the western district, the howls of Velthya's lycanthropes and her clan as they trained for night patrols, the laughter of children from many races playing in the black rose gardens, and the wind carrying the scent of fresh black mushrooms mixed with furnace smoke.
