You sit on the rough stone, just wide enough for two people to walk abreast - wide enough that you've never been afraid, not even when you were little and your dad would take you up to watch for dolphins. You got cinnamon buns then, but your taste buds have graduated a bit now, and now? Now it's all about the spice rolls, cinnamon and clove and cardamom swirled into the dough, glazed with honey - and there's always a hot sweet pocket of melted spice at the center, and that's what you want, the morning after a night like that. You tuck in eagerly, buttery pastry flaking into your lap, as the sun rises and burns night from the sky - as the night's fog dissipates, rolls back into the sea.
Pastries finished, you cup your hot chocolate in both hands and watch the fog recede. You are inches from the shield, the invisible, almost-intangible dome over the city that keeps Shayara cloaked from the human world. You can feel it - not always, not generally when you go about your day, but sometimes. A low background hum that is felt rather than heard. This close, though, you feel it, and it is warmth and power and it feels like a hug. Quietly, you hum along with it... and then you sing. Wordlessly, notes rising and falling with the frequency of the shield, you sing your city awake.