There was no sunrise in Tharvaldur.
Instead, the massive chronoclock embedded high in the inner mountain wall shifted its outer ring from deep indigo to pale silver, marking the turn from night to morning. Along the cavern ceiling, rows of mana-lamps adjusted in response, dimming from their warmer festival glow to a steadier, cooler tone that signaled the start of the workday.
The city changed with it.
The drums were gone. The roaring laughter had faded. Steam still curled from vents between the bridges, but now it carried the sharper rhythm of industry rather than celebration. A pair of dwarves rolled empty barrels back toward a warehouse entrance. Someone swept shattered glass into a metal pan. The smell of ale lingered stubbornly in the air.
Balthor walked with measured steps that were just slightly too careful.
