Bairan stood at the shore, watching the Tower of Trammel prepare to sail. The sky had darkened to a bruised gray, and the wind was picking up—gusts strong enough to pull at his clothes, to carry salt and the distant promise of something worse. The ship's crew moved with the urgency of people who understood that delays on this continent could become permanent.
Someone stormed toward him, white hair whipping behind her like a battle standard.
"What is going on?!" The young lady's voice cut through the wind like a blade. "I demand to be filled in on why that ship is leaving without taking anyone!"
Bairan kept his expression neutral. The longing in his chest—the pull toward that ship, toward escape from this damned continent—he buried it before she could close the distance.
