Several days had passed since that peaceful morning when Nocture's dawn wind carried the scent of black roses and still-warm tea. The underground city now pulsed with a steadier rhythm not the panicked throb of post-war recovery, but the steady heartbeat of hard work filled with hope. Dwarf hammers rang more regularly from the forges in the iron district, lycanthrope howls sounded like organized morning drills, and the thin black mist now felt like a protective blanket rather than a fog of fear.
Far away in the North Atlantic Ocean, amid waves still churning with the lingering wrath of gods, Poseidon and Aegir finally reached a bitter agreement.
