The sun slipped quietly out of the mauve and turquoise of the western sky into the sea, leaving a scarlet wash against the dark rim of the crater. Ithilion, the guide star to the Havens, glowed incandescent against the marine gloom. A winter sunset, the smoke from a hundred thousand fires staining the heavens with blood; the air cold and still and scented with the familiar smells of the city—wood smoke, coffee, garlic and onions, roasting meat, ordure, salt water, rottenness, hot oil, wax, wine.
A day like any other. Except that the Panthra Aliya was dead.
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