The summer sun rose high over the smoke-silver waters of the Liffey.
Its warmth washed across the slate roofs of Dubh Linn, gilding the iron-capped towers and casting long shadows over the cobbled lanes that ran from the quays to the royal hall.
The scent of salt and fish mingled with smoke and the faint sweetness of heather, but beneath that was something else.
A stillness.
A hush that did not belong to summer.
No bells rang. No horns called from the sea-facing towers. The gulls wheeled in silence. The harbor, though crowded with merchants, felt like a breath held too long.
The King stood on the balcony of his timber fort-keep, arms crossed, a goblet of watered wine forgotten in one hand.
He stared eastward; beyond the fields, beyond the bay, beyond even the wind itself. Somewhere out there was an answer he did not like.
"They haven't returned," came a voice behind him.
