Rotheart revealed itself in layers.
Cobblestone streets stretched wide enough for carriages down the center, pedestrians claiming the margins. Buildings rose three and four stories high—Victorian facades with Belle Époque flourishes, wrought iron balconies, stained glass catching morning light. Gas lamps lined the walkways at regular intervals, unlit now but ready for dusk.
Golden lions prowled everywhere. Carved into cornerstones. Etched above doorways. Woven into the flags that snapped from balconies, the city's symbol declaring itself with quiet pride.
Steam hissed from grates. Machinery hummed behind walls. Alleys twisted between buildings like veins, narrow and shadow-deep.
