In the gardens of the keep, fountains gush, mists are sprayed, and serfs stand wafting man-sized fans. The nobles chat about the awful heat and each secretly fears they will be first to produce a single bead of sweat, while they lounge in the shade.
In the lower city, they are thinking about how long they will have to leave the corpses in the streets. With the heat getting trapped between the tight alleyways, the streets have become hissing furnaces that will scour the skin and overheat the mind of anyone foolish or desperate enough to venture beyond the shade of their homes. If they have homes.
Come nightfall, those willing will have to sneak out and drag the bodies somewhere, before the rot gets any worse and the plagues begin.
More than a few eyes are turned up to the keep, where the mists form the glittering arc of a rainbow above the white stone, and regard it longing, and envy, and fury.
Paddy Dobson
19th July 2022