The high-altitude wind howling off the jagged, snow-capped peaks of the Wyrmtooth Ridge carried the heavy, unmistakable symphony of a world fully realized. Down in the sprawling plazas of the Blackfang Citadel, five hundred brass steam-whistles blared in a roaring, synchronized chorus, their white plumes cutting through the deep twilight sky like the banners of a peaceful armada. Today marked the exact fifth winter since the dark basalt crown had been placed upon Gwen's silver braids. Five rotations of absolute stabilization. Five years since the old, decaying machine of the Floating Palace had been deleted from the master ledger.
Inside the High Pavilion, the air was warm, thick, and laced with the scent of unrefined mountain honey, dark juniper incense, and the faint, comfortable crackle of ozone.
