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Sterling grunted as their leg started to cramp from where they were wedged, halfway down the Second Master Arcanist’s chimney.

Talasin-Zo had just sat down in a near empty tavern, crouched deeply in the mud at the fifth crossroads, in Old Zamora Town.

Liberty of the clink, working the corner. Outside the law. 5 pounds a throw, can you afford it, Sir?

He loved the iron city, though it wasn’t iron all the way through. It was lights and concrete and metal girders, and cold, and rain.