Morning mist clung to the water in the Royal Capital's Canal District, seeping into every damp alley.
Before the dock bells had rung, the mill's enormous waterwheel had already begun turning with a rhythmic groan.
The city had yet to fully awaken.
In a cheap riverside tavern, a yawning serving boy wiped the tables with a greasy rag.
The sour smell of cheap ale mingled with the stench of stale sweat.
A few dockworkers fresh off the night shift gnawed on hard, dry black bread over bowls of watery grain porridge.
They were regulars here. For a few Copper Leaves, they could doze in a corner while waiting for the next cargo ship to arrive.
A respectably dressed bard walked in.
The tavern keeper looked up and clearly recognized his regular customer, but when a whole Silver Moon slid across the counter, surprise still flickered in his eyes-this was far more generous than usual.
The keeper pocketed the money without comment, then served him a cup of his best wine.
The bard did not hurry to drink it. He walked to the center of the tavern.
He did not speak right away.
He plucked the lute in his arms, letting a gentle melody flow forth. It was neither a battle song of charging knights nor a languid tune about noblewomen's romances.
A hint of dejection ran through the melody.
Several dockworkers stopped chewing and looked up.
"Friends, today I won't be singing about princesses and evil dragons."
The bard spoke in a gentle voice.
"I'll tell you a true story. It's about a man named Elwin, a genius from the Mage Academy."
"A genius?" one worker scoffed. "Which of those high-and-mighty mages doesn't call himself a genius?"
The bard ignored the jibe and continued.
"Everyone at the academy said he