Morning came cold and iron-grey.
Caedrion rose before the bells, his mind restless, body refusing the comfort of bed.
Aelindria stirred as he dressed by the pale light, but said nothing, only reached out once, her fingers brushing his hand in quiet blessing.
He pressed his lips to her knuckles, then left before the warmth of her presence made him falter.
Dawnhaven's streets were already stirring.
Smoke rose from the forges, the hammering of apprentices carried faintly in the air, and the scent of iron and oil cut through the frost.
Where once the city had been no more than a keep and market square, now whole districts had been bent toward his vision: furnaces, workshops, smelters, rows of chimneys like new battlements.
Industry had taken root within the walls, as vital as bread.
Baelius was waiting for him at the central forge, a tall figure in a soot-stained apron, his sharp features shadowed by the glow of embers.
His eyes, pale as spent ash, lifted at Caedrion's approach.
