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The Tower of Night was busier than he'd ever seen it--which wasn't too surprising, really. If all three hundred of Abbas' refugees had made it to Warrenhold, then the number people within the castle had almost doubled overnight.

He wasn't too concerned about having enough room for everyone, but food was another matter. No doubt, Ms. Rogers was having a hell of time with all of these new guests.

On every floor, he could see the Rainlords and Sandlords intermingling, but they were easy to differentiate from one another. Even if their bronzier skin, head coverings, and robes didn't give them away, it would still be obvious because the Sandlords looked like they'd all been through hell.

So many wounded.

He was glad to see they were being tended to, though.

Hector was a bit worried how the Rainlords and Sandlords were going to get along under one roof, but this was an encouraging sight, he felt. And they'd shared a country for ages, so maybe there was hope.

With each room or crowded corridor that he passed, Hector sensed a lot of eyes on him and heard plenty of hushed whispers.

It was making him self-conscious. These clothes weren't making him stand out too much, were they? They couldn't be. They practically blended into the nightrock.

As he neared the first floor, a crying woman stumbled in front of him and all but fell at his feet. She was saying something, but he couldn't tell what it was, either because she was sobbing too hard or because she was simply speaking a different language--or perhaps both.

'I think she's thanking you,' said Garovel privately. 'Ah. For saving the lives of her grandchildren.'

Hector's brow peaked in the center, and a somber frown split his face as he helped the poor woman back up to her feet. When he looked her in the eye, it only seemed to make her cry harder.