The Shi’aran ruins stir at dawn. Mist clings to broken spires and crumbling halls, and Dain rises before the first light touches the shattered crystal dome of the Moonhall, as he always does. The elder’s chambers are austere, little more than stone walls, a cot, and a shelf crowded with scrolls and maps. His chainmail rests folded at the foot of his bed, polished until it gleams even in the gloom. Dain dresses quickly- Chainmail first, then his robes above. He ties back his long hair, streaked ...