In the Royal Capital's canal district, morning mist clung to the water's surface, seeping into every damp alley.
The bell at the docks had yet to ring, but the mill's giant water wheel had already begun to turn, letting out a rhythmic groan.
The city had not yet fully awakened.
In a cheap tavern by the river, a tavern hand was yawning, using a greasy rag to wipe down the tables.
The air was thick with the sour smell of cheap ale and the reek of stale sweat.
A few dock porters, just off their night shift, were nursing bowls of watery wheat gruel and gnawing on hard black bread.
They were regulars here. For a few Copper Leaves, they could nap in a corner and wait for the next cargo ship to arrive.
A respectably dressed bard walked in.
The tavernkeep looked up, clearly recognizing the regular, but when a whole Silver Moon slid across the bar, a flicker of surprise still crossed his eyes—the bard was being far more lavish than usual.
