The tower was cold in the grey light before dawn, but Lysander had long since stopped noticing the cold.
He stood at the parapet, looking down at the strait. The water was calm this morning, a sheet of grey silk stretching between Troy and the distant hills of the opposite shore. The current moved slowly, a deep, powerful surge that had carved this channel over millennia. Ships passing through the strait had to navigate carefully—the water was deep in the centre, but the edges were treacherous with rocks and shoals. A vessel that strayed too far from the main channel could find itself hull-shattered in moments.
