Lanthir Quay

Lanthir Quay curves around the western water in pale stone and lantern fire, a harbour-city old enough that its first piers have become foundations for newer courts. At dawn it is breathtaking: white steps, green-black tide, gulls above sail lofts, music greeting arrivals beneath towers of glass and bronze. By afternoon its mercy has a smell: fish blood, wet rope, lamp oil, fever tents, horse sweat from supply carts, and the sour breath of men who slept in armour. Every ship is welcomed by song and inventory clerks in the same hour. Lanthir teaches the broken that refuge is real, but never uncounted.