Eybalen, the capital of Caytor. The foul weather had not yet touched the sprawling port city. The sea was calm and reflected the sunlight like a sheet of beaten tin, with a thousand twinkling lights. Hundreds of ships moored in the harbor, their masts a forest of leafless trees. Closer, dappled over the gentle, low hills of the bay, the houses and palaces of Eybalen rose, in all forms and colors and wrapped in a miasma of a busy, swarming hive of human life that blurred details. The road descended toward the city’s western quarter, built mostly of low houses. On the hills to the north rose big, brilliant mansions and villas. Carts and people on foot passed him in their hundreds, coming and going. No one paid him any attention, a nameless form in a worn overcoat. Ewan had never seen a big city, only read about them and imagined them. The view was breathtaking. And…he was afraid. He was afraid to step into that cauldron of humanity. He was afraid of the intensity of the city, of the claustrophobic density that radiated from the narrow streets.
