The sea breeze carried a salty dampness, sweeping away the last trace of Steinbach's scorched stench from Anton's memory.
He stopped and held the sleeping Lina a little tighter against his chest.
Ahead of him, a city rose from gray-white rock and pierced the clouds.
It was not a fortress piled together from stone and timber, but a great beast carved directly into the mountainside.
Five distinct tiers rose one above another, with the White Tower at the summit reflecting a holy radiance in the morning light. The paved roads, broad enough for three carriages abreast, were clean and orderly. Along either side, men and women in matching work clothes pushed handcarts or directed some kind of mana-powered steel crane as it loaded and unloaded cargo. Everyone hurried along, their faces free of the numbness and despair Anton knew so well. There was only vitality and hope.
"Heavens..." Martha covered her mouth before a cry could escape. She tugged at Anton's sleeve, her fingers trembling slightly from the force of her grip. "Anton, is this... is this Minas Tirith?"
Anton did not answer. His throat bobbed.
He had thought his cousin Hans's letter was already full of exaggerations. How much could a craftsman possibly exaggerate? Surely it meant no more than having enough to eat and work to do. Yet the sight before him shattered much of what a lifetime had taught him.
Steinbach was a stagnant pool. This place was a seething furnace.
The immigration registry occupied a large stone building on the edge of the harbor district.
Anton's family joined the end of the long line. He noticed that, though it was long, it moved quickly. Several clerks in gray uniforms sat behind a long table, each with a neat stack of papyrus and a bottle of ink