Konstantin Somerled

Night was relinquishing its grip on the countryside and there was a pale yellow glow behind the hills in the distance. The cold remained, of course - Eisenheim's winters were long and spring was late. I gazed across the black waters of the Konigsmeer, as they lapped against the concrete of of the port. I could see ships being loaded with cargo and the Old Palace, clinging to the cliffs, was the backdrop.

It was barely dawn, but Eisenheim never sleeps. Steel mills spewed smoke like an angry daemon and the city's numerous factories rolled out produce into waiting trucks and cargo trains, to be taken to the great port or south, to the other cities, perhaps Solenheim, the seat of the Empire. I could remember Solenheim well, although I hadn’t visited in a decade, not since I was a child. In many ways Solenheim was the opposite of Eisenheim - perpetually warm with long, lazy summers, shining marble and sandstone buildings and great open parks. Less productive, of course. Eisenheim was the world's economic powerhouse and attracted workers in droves from the countryside. There was energy in this city, perhaps not vibrant, but implacable. It felt like a driving which lent purpose to every step.

I stepped away from the window of my penthouse and started to get ready for the day.