Morning in the dragon city was a strange thing.
The city never woke gently—it lurched into life. Bells tolled from the towers, not melodious but sharp, meant to drive men from beds and women to markets.
The smell of baking bread, of frying onions, of the sour wine left unfinished from the night before—these were the perfumes of the capital's dawn.
And amid all of it, at a battered wooden table outside a roadside tavern, sat Aric Valerian and Serina Marceli.
Their clothes were wrong for breakfast. His black coat was streaked with ash and crusted blood. Her sleeves were stiff where they had dried crimson.
The passerby noticed but pretended not to; in this city, you did not ask why strangers carried blood on their collars.
The tavern owner dared not shoo them away. Instead, he brought bread, cheese, and a pan of eggs that hissed faintly as they cooled in the morning air.
Aric ate as though nothing had happened.
