Under the maritime climate, the nights of late September had already begun to turn chilly.
The damp sea breeze swept north along the Rift Corridor, struck the grey walls of Sighing Fortress, and condensed into a film of dew.
The lord's bedroom, in the fortress's main building.
The crimson velvet curtains were drawn tight, enclosing the four-poster bed in a warm, quiet world of its own. Embers in the fireplace cast flickering orange-red light onto the gilded lion-head shield hanging on the wall, as though the glory of old still silently watched over this aging commander.
Oak crackled in the fireplace, supplying a steady warmth. Garcia, Marquis Donglu, stood before a wall map in a heavy velvet dressing gown, holding half a glass of wine.
Even at rest, he maintained the bearing of a man surveying a battlefield.
"Still no word?" Garcia's voice was a little hoarse.
The adjutant standing beside him immediately straightened and raised his tray slightly. A bottle of calming potion sat on it.
Since the war began, the elderly Marquis Donglu had been plagued by insomnia. Only medication could release him from his anxiety and allow him something approaching a good night's sleep.
"Not yet, my lord," the adjutant answered evenly. "The autumn rains have made the southern post roads rather muddy lately. Couriers are often delayed by a day or two."
Garcia frowned and turned toward the window. Outside, everything was pitch-black.
"Something isn't right."
The old marquis set down his wineglass and tapped his fingers on the windowsill. "Golden Thread Province has been too quiet. How has the Grey Sea Alliance's offensive been going lately? And Romon-with his temperament, he shouldn't go days without reporting to me."
"My lord, you're worrying too much."
The adjutant stepped forward, deftly uncorked the calming potion, and handed