Below, in the roads leading to the cities, early arrivals were already moving, heads down, hands clutching coin pouches, eyes hungry. They expected sunrise to crawl over the horizon as usual.
It did not. A perfect line cut across the sky, as if someone had drawn a blade through the morning and stopped the light from spilling.
At first people blamed fog. They had watched the green haze Cairnight Barterhold.
But this was not that.
The fog thinned. It did not swirl or cling. It simply dissolved, peeling away from the air in quiet sheets.
What remained stole the breath.
A massive terrace hung where the morning should have been, so broad it seemed to rewrite the horizon.
It exuded beauty and grace the way a well made weapon did, smooth and elegant, dangerous in its certainty.
Sunlight struck its edges and scattered into pale bands, like silk pulled tight.
Those in the know had been anticipating this moment. They had whispered about it in tea houses and alleyways.
