The midnight bells of the grand cathedral tolled across the sleeping capital, their bronze resonance muffled by dense river fog.
A biting autumn draft swept down from the high limestone bluffs, channeling through the narrow cobblestone corridors of the lower commercial district.
The damp night air carried the sharp, bitter stench of chimney soot, wet wool, and rotting canal weeds drifting up from the southern wharves.
Hajin walked alone beneath the dripping eaves of Weaver's Alley, his woolen traveler's mantle wrapped loosely around his splinted right arm.
Behind him, the distant lanterns of the palace heights long since faded into the impenetrable mist, leaving the shadowed street in near-total gloom.
Four grueling days of forced marching across the northern highways followed by the exhausting interrogation in the High Council pushed his stamina to its limit.
