Dong... dong... dong...
The resounding tolls of the Sanctum Cathedral bells shattered the morning mist drifting lazily over the city's grey rooftops.
Roland was already sitting upright on the edge of his bed long before the first strike of iron rang out. He stared at the leather soles of his boots, now wearing thin at the heels, reflecting on just how many miles he had marched through dust and peril merely to reach this point.
Across the room, Rianor remained faithfully at his desk. His quill scratched against the parchment—skritch... scratch...—filling up gods-knew-what page since they first set foot in The Silver Bell inn.
"You're not coming with me this morning," Roland stated, pulling his shoelaces tight.
Rianor didn't lift his gaze from the paper. "I know."
