High noon bathed the Red Stone River in an incandescent, shadowless glare. The red waters swirled fiercely beneath the central arch of the ancient bridge, churning into pink-white froth against the triangular cutwaters of the cyclopean piers. The bridge itself was twenty paces wide—a grand highway of weathered granite slabs worn smooth by centuries of merchants, pilgrims, and marching legions. Built during the First Accord by the master stonemasons of…
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