The sun hung at its zenith, a molten coin in a cloudless vault of otherwise only blue, not a cloud passed in the sun's path, not daring to stop who was to come to light the way ahead.
Its herald stood atop a slight rise, the sea breeze tugging at his cloak, watching the result of the governor's work
What had once been a military outpost, a collection of mud-slicked tents and sharpened stakes, had bloomed into the shape of a burgeoning harbor . To call it a city was a stretch of the imagination; it lacked the walls of Yarzat or the teeming alleys of the southern ports of Aracina. But for a frontier edge, it was a miracle.
With a population of barely thirteen hundred souls, it was a fragile toehold of civilization. Five hundred were the lifeblood: farmers breaking the stubborn soil, fishermen wrestling with the tides, and the camp followers who turned a barracks into a home. The remaining eight hundred were the iron: the garrison of Salthold, standing watch over the transition.
