The winter in the Empire is finally no longer synonymous with death.
When the first Energy Tower roared to life in the center of the square, old Tom, wrapped in a tattered blanket, even discarded his cane—scorching warmth gushed from the tower's hexagonal vents, melting the snow within a three-mile radius into streams of white mist.
"Is this tower spitting the God of Fire's saliva?" Old Tom mumbled at the steam-cloaked tower tip with his toothless mouth, his murky eyeballs reflecting an orange-red glow.
His tattered blanket was smoldering, yet he was unaware as he moved closer to the heat source, until a patrolling guard prodded him awake with a steam spear, preventing him from self-immolation.
A peculiar community formed around the Energy Tower.
Women baked frozen sheets on the heat pipes, vagrants curled up next to the iron grilles at the heat vents to sleep, and even stray dogs knew to bring frozen mice here for a meal.
