Halcyon Span did not so much appear on the Gilded Heron's viewport as arrive, all at once, the way a held breath finally lets go.
Rohan stood at the small observation window in his guest quarters, forehead nearly touching the reinforced glass, and watched a system unfold that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the dead, ash-choked silence of Cael Athis. Ships. Dozens of them, then hundreds, strung across the black in slow, glittering procession — bulk haulers wide as small towns, sleek courier vessels darting between lanes with an urgency that suggested time mattered to somebody, passenger liners lit from within like floating cities, military-marked patrol craft holding lazy formation near what looked like a customs checkpoint the size of a small moon.
