Kleada’s cities sit against the coastline, their streets narrow and weathered. The air smells of salt and earth, sharp with the bite of the sea and the scent of pine. In the markets of Kiposopolis, baskets of figs and carob are stacked beside vendors selling bunches of olives and carnations. The sound of footfalls on stone is constant—people moving, talking, haggling. The breeze from the Celaenean Bay carries the scent of sage and marjoram, mixing with the smoke from hearths where food is always being cooked.

To the southeast, the towering Mount Peradallos looms over Kiposopolis, its peaks often lost in the haze of the afternoon light. Farther west, the city-state of Tenossos spreads out along the coast, its white stone buildings almost gleaming in the sunlight. The mountains rise on the horizon, their jagged peaks cutting against the pale blue sky. Between the stone buildings, a few scattered trees break the lines—laurel, oak, and the thick trunks of fig trees. The sun, when it’s high, doesn’t seem to warm the air but hovers above, giving the land a cold, sharp light. The ground, mostly dust and stone, gives off the faint scent of the sea in the mornings and the sharper tang of pine when the wind shifts.

In the late afternoon, the wind changes, bringing with it a chill from the north. People gather in courtyards, the soft sounds of psalterions filling the spaces between conversations. A dog barks in the distance, and a parrot squawks from a rooftop. By evening, the light turns pale and thin, casting long shadows on the stone streets, and the scent of laurel drifts heavier in the air. The sea never feels far away. It’s always there, just beyond the city, tugging at the edges of everything.