A chill lingered in the air, and the dew glistened with an icy sheen. The dawn sky was painted a deep, unending blue as if the sun would never rise again. The southern gates of Cadis lay shrouded in thick fog, the cold morning pressing heavily on all present.
“Bring in the carriage,” came a cold voice. “The lord has given his orders.”
As the chains were loosened to lower the drawbridge, the iron links groaned in protest. When the bridge finally fell into place at the edge of the moat, the ground trembled under its immense weight.
“The lord has permitted only the coachman and Shylock Isles to enter. The rest must wait outside the gates or turn back.”
