Morning in Sanctum arrived without the customary toll of the cathedral bells. Perhaps the priests were submerged in deep, solemn prayers. Perhaps the tolling mechanism was broken. Roland didn't care. Long before the sun had fully scaled the horizon, he stood rigidly before a bakery stall, wearing the flat expression of a man whose only thought was breakfast.
"Whole wheat. Two loaves."
The baker—an elderly woman with a dust-coated apron and flour-dusted hands—handed over the wrapped bread without bothering to speak.
Clink. Roland placed the exact change on the wooden counter. He didn't attempt to shave off a single copper. He had learned his lesson from the Whitebridge incident.
"Are you a traveler from the north?" the old woman rasped suddenly, her wrinkled eyes scrutinizing Roland's coat.
Roland chewed on the crust of his bread casually. "Eastmarch."
"A long journey. Where are you seeking your fortune?"
"South. Trade expansion."
