It was six in the evening in late December.
Winter days in Bernia were short. Heavy, lead-gray clouds had long since swallowed the daylight, leaving only a bleak, deathly white afterglow on the western horizon. Cold wind threaded through the streets and alleys of the Royal Capital, the "Silver Capital," its mournful howl battering the cold glass curtain wall of the Steel Heavy Industry Consortium's headquarters.
On the top floor, in Robin's office.
The heavy solid-wood door slid silently open, and Boer walked in, carrying the chill of the outdoors with him. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the corridor's light and noise. The office was as warm as spring, its heating silently holding the cold at bay. The only light came from the vintage lamp on Robin's broad desk, casting a soft halo over mountains of documents.
Robin was bent over her desk, the quill in her hand scratching steadily and smoothly across the paper. In the lamplight, her profile looked focused and serene. She did not even look up, as though she had long since grown familiar with the newcomer's presence and rhythm.
Boer walked to the low table by the window. The metal cube following him settled naturally and gently onto its surface. Then the cube's exterior receded like rippling water, revealing what it held inside-a dull gray-blue ore weighing roughly five kilograms, along with several pairs of intricately constructed shackles gleaming coldly.
Seastone.
A metal film covered his hands as he set the objects, which could strike terror into countless ability users across the seas, lightly on the table as though they were mere odds and ends. They landed with a dull thud. Then he turned and sank his tall frame into a leather sofa by the window meant for visitors. Propping his temple