[ this should be rome, she thinks. if she has left astor, and all its broken things in that world, this should be rome. and instead, she does not understand the immense buildings of this place. the soft glow of light that isn't fire. all the steel and iron. her pack is too light. the air beside her, beneath her, is not warm enough. her arm does not sting an old pain, and for all loria is miserable...

claudia finds herself wishing for the mountains. the scent of grass burning in the sun, fresh rain and a crispness that follows the cliffs, and the salt of the sea carried in the wind. here, the wind carries something foreign. ale and oil, perhaps, but all the same: disgusting. (her throat feels raw.)

somewhere, glass shatters, and the hall pitches into darkness. she misplaces her foot: something that rolls beneath her and claudia falls to the ground in a hard thud. — hitting her chin and scraping her hands and she tastes copper. she groans, then, rolling onto her back. staring into the pitch. at least her tongue isn't swimming in her throat, she thinks. ]