The marble steps of the Luminance Spire were worn smooth in the center, hollowed out by three hundred years of pilgrims' boots.
Rian walked up the wide stairs slowly, his hands in his uniform pockets, keeping his pace matched to the old street priest three steps ahead. The air near the top smelled of ozone, burnt lard, and the heavy sweetness of crushed white lilies.
Below them, the slate roofs of Reimhold stretched out toward the Crimson Tide like a carpet of dark scales, but up here, the wind was clean and cold enough to burn the back of the throat.
The street priest was an old man in ragged white linen, gesturing wildly at the sky with a wooden censer that threw no smoke.
