The scent of stone dust and fresh bread mingled in the air as I stepped through the western gate of MoonHaven, the early afternoon light casting golden warmth over the cobblestone streets. The city was alive with the hum of progress—hammers clanging, wheels turning, voices raised in purpose rather than panic. For once, the energy was not from fear, but from preparation. It was a nice change of pace.
MoonHaven was beautiful in its simplicity, elegant like the brushstrokes of a long-forgotten painting. The buildings stood close and proud, with arched stone doorways, iron-latticed windows, and flower boxes brimming with early spring blooms—violets, pink and white hyacinths, wild asters trailing in tiny spills of colour. Pretty dots of paint on a grey canvas. There were very few trees here, only a handful of spindly ash and oak tucked into corners or lining the square, but the people made up for it with blooms and ivy climbing the stone.
