Vanna stood on the highest tower of the Storm Cathedral.
Through the open window she looked past the cathedral’s roof, past the lights that flickered in the deep mists, past the city blocks that no longer quite matched her memories, and toward the far-off direction of the sea.
The steam-power pipes beside the spiral stair hissed faintly.
A brass censer hung from a pipe valve, sighing thin wisps of smoke.
Old Archbishop Valentin stood quietly to one side, his eyes clouded and pale from blood that had ceased to flow, and he and Vanna both watched the distance together.
After a long while, Vanna finally broke the silence softly. “I remember… I used to stand on this tower a lot. Whenever night fell, I would watch every corner of Prand from here. The steam pipes always hissed then, too. The scent of the incense would make you calm.”
“That seems like it wasn’t that long ago,” Archbishop Valentin said in a low voice.
“Yes, it feels like it wasn’t long ago,” Vanna nodded gently. “The nights back then were restless as well. Things would crawl out from the dark and bother ordinary folk. At that time I was full of confidence — I felt I could contend with anything that threatened the city-state, whether shadowy cultists or whatever those cultists summoned.”