Looking down, she scowled at the dirty sludge that splashed over her shoes with each step she took. As another gust of cold wind battered her, she wrapped her arms around her chest and hugged her worn coat closer to her body. Then, as if appalled by the ragged souls it met there, it quietened to a whimper. On the day of the Purge it whistled amongst the swaying masts in the Marina, rushed through the Western Gates and screamed between the buildings.
It is said, in Imardin, that the wind has a soul, and that it wails through the narrow city streets because it is grieved by what it finds there. He provided the spark that lit the twin fires of
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