The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended grey curtain of wet wool that pressed against the high, arched windows of the City of Saint Jude, blurring the spires and the streets below into a single, indistinct smear of sorrow. Inside the Hall of the Silver Shield, the air was thick with the scent of damp stone, old wax, and the metallic tang of fear, a smell that clung to the back of...
The bell did not ring; it was swallowed by a fog so thick it had the weight of wet wool, pressing against the stone walls of the Abbey of Saint Jude until the masonry groaned in a low, subterranean hum. Caelum, a boy of twelve winters with hands stained the permanent violet of crushed blackberries, sat upon a bench of cold slate, his breath visible as a thin, trembling ribbon in the air,...
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