Drowning is not so pitiful

As the attempt to rise.

— Emily Dickinson

Hope lies in the smoldering rubble of empires.

— Rage Against the Machine

(“Calm Like a Bomb”)

1229 Sal Emperaturi

Symir. The Drowning City.

An exile, perhaps, but at least it was an interesting one.

Isyllt’s gloved hands tightened on the railing as the Black Mariah cleared the last of the Dragon Stones and turned toward the docks, dark estuarine water slopping against her hull. Fishing boats dotted Ka Liang Bay, glass buoys flashing in the sun. Cormorants dove around them, scattering ripples as they snatched fish from hooks and nets.

The west wind died, broken on the Dragons’ sharp peaks, and the jungle’s hot breath wafted from the shore. Rank with brine and bilge, sewers draining into the sea, but under the port-reek the air smelled of spices and the green tang of Sivahra’s forests rising beyond the marshy delta of the Mir. Mountains flanked the capital city Symir, uneven green sentinels on either side of the river. So unlike the harsh and rocky shores of Selafai they had left behind two and a half decads ago.

Only twenty-five days at sea-a short voyage, though it didn’t feel that way to Isyllt. The ship had made good time, laden only with olive oil and wheat flour from the north.

And northern spies. But those weren’t recorded on the cargo manifest.