We transition from the grease-choked, violently heated lower markets to the absolute peak of Aethelgard's architectural hubris.
"The lower terraces are excellent for culinary violence, but if you want to see where the Dukedom truly wastes its tax revenue, you have to look up."
Krave announced, licking a final smear of fiercely spiced wyrm-grease from her pale thumb.
She pointed toward the northern quadrant of the capital. Even from a distance, peering through the densely packed layers of aristocratic estates and spiralling coral pathways, I could see the ambient light shifting. The golden, artificial sunset that washed over the majority of the Dry Wards was fractured here, violently intercepted by towering columns of piercing, colourful cyan and deep violet.
"Are those... waterfalls?"
I asked, narrowing my eyes to analyse the distant flow of mana.
