Meridian looked less like a city than a challenge issued to the sky: black spires stabbing up through a quilt of morning fog, mirrored walls still wet with last night's sleet, every surface insisting it would never be softened by the warmth of human hands.
Soren's boots sucked at the ice-glazed ruts, archipelagos of refuse swirling around his ankles, the city's greeting committee, all rot and chemical perfume. Somewhere above, a bell tolled, each note longer and more exhausted than the last, as if even time itself was waiting for a shift change.
He kept his sword sheathed under the coat, hand never straying far from the grip. Behind him, Rehn shuffled, wrists bound but mouth already resuming its slow-motion victory lap. "Welcome home," Rehn said, tongue tasting blood at the corner of his mouth, "You made good test subjects."
