We met for the first time on Qechra, the world of forges. One morning at sunrise, standing on the Bridge of Chalcedony crossing the endless outpouring of Qechra’s ocean into one of its cooling gorges – where the spray of the falling water meets the steam boiling up from the ruddy-glowing depths of the industry below, sharp with the scents of salt and sweetness and hot metal, I looked up and saw her. Pale armor of spun glass and feathered silver gleaming in the dawn; wings as golden as her hair; gliding swiftly on the rising furnace-draught from light-tower to light-tower.
Even then, I knew, and all the clangor of the machinery was not so loud as the pounding of my hearts.
– from the private reminiscences of Octë Cyprium-ith-Avalae