I still remember when every shattered mirror meant twice the misfortune. Back then, I traded my old belt buckle for a new pair of scissors and spent days fixing the broken salon roof while looking at the stars. I traced the constellations as if they'd reveal my path, letting the moon's silvery glow burn into my mind. It greets me whenever I close my eyes, in waking and dreams. It's been my calling to make my clients shine brighter than the sun, but the stars have inscribed a new fate for me. As war approaches, the light bids me in the direction of Fort Kelvin. Our walls won't stop the assault, and neither will my razor blade, so the celestial divinity demands I leave my salon. Is this a sacrifice I can make? I wish I could reach the stars and entangle myself into their web of constellations, realigning the threads — enforcing my will on them, just this once.

They hide their horror with pungent cologne, barely masking the underlying stench of sweat. None revealed why. Only an older lady, with gray hair carelessly fallen into her kind face, would dare to name what they all feared. A "tremble in the earth" they feel at night keeps them awake. They've reported it to Pikemead's Reach but to no avail. As a son of the glorious capital myself, I admit I've never heard of this story, either. Acknowledging it beyond a report would set their fears in stone, so most prefer to remain silent. In my deep slumber, the unnerving sounds don't reach me — still, I am restless. The light from my dreams burns brighter here. I've closed the salon for a few days to recover and have spent my time mixing pigments. The red dye I've concocted glistens in the sun like fresh blood. I hope it's not a bad omen. Did the stars call me here to suffer different carnage more to their liking?