The first snow fell on the Royal Capital in December.
Snowflakes mingled with the wind blowing in from the sea, striking faces with a wet, bitter chill.
The port had already shut down. Hogg was directing his apprentices as they loaded crates dusted with a thin layer of snow onto the Golden Sail Merchant Guild's wagons.
The wheels rolled over thin ice with a crisp crunch.
At a street corner, Tristan stood beside Veylin. Neither spoke.
He watched the craftsmen who were about to leave on their long journey. Their faces showed no sorrow at leaving home, only excitement.
Over the past few days, Veylin had followed Tristan through much of the Royal Capital on foot.
From the slippery paving stones of the dock district to the oak gates of the Artisans' District.
From the steps of Parliament Square to the flickering oil lamps of the underground black market.
They spoke little, but every observation, every pause, convinced Tristan that this southern baron was unlike any noble he had ever met.
Veylin was observing him, too.
He watched Tristan record the subtle differences in grain prices between districts, and saw him estimate the type and tonnage of cargo aboard a ship from its waterline alone.
At first, Veylin had regarded him as a bargaining chip in his dealings with Marquis Lorenzo.
He had intended to trade bloodline activation to the powerful marquis in exchange for a vote in favor of his development rights.
But now, his plans had changed.
Tristan himself was just as important as the friendship of his father, the marquis.
"Look at those craftsmen."
Veylin spoke, his voice particularly clear in the cold air.
"When they reach the Gray Marsh Fief, they'll build houses and lay roads. But who will plan where those roads go? Who will