PreludeWestern Citadel — morning of the Midsummer Festival.
It is the break of dawn.
The routine of the Western District holds steady, though the Midsummer Festival weighs upon it already. Citizens are rowdier than usual. Quicker to dispute. Quicker to complain. Quicker still to search for some easier way around a rule that was there yesterday and will still be there tomorrow.
Shortcuts end up creating more work and more risk.
Lieutenant Marcus Hale watches the Western District wake.
Carts gather before the warehouse lanes. Watchmen change posts along the gate road. Shopkeepers drag shutters open while labourers move barrels, timber, and sacks beneath the first light of morning. Somewhere farther inward, festival decorations have already begun appearing where work signs stood the night before.
Everything moves.
Everything has a place.
Captain Varis Lang had come through the district that morning to review expectations for the festival.
Hale had assured him everything was under control. The streets would remain orderly. The crowds would remain safe. His Watchmen knew their assignments.
Lang had laughed.
“Marcus, they’re going to a festival, not marching into formation.”
Then came the reminder Hale had heard in one form or another for years: the Watch was there for the people. Give them room to make their own judgments. Treat them like capable people and, more often than not, they would prove themselves competent.
Hale understood the point.
He also understood the Western District.
He knew which intersections would choke before midday. Which warehouse lanes would become shortcuts once the crowds thickened. Which taverns would start serving too early. Which stretches of Market Road would attract pickpockets the moment merchants became distracted by festival traffic.
He knew his people. He knew his streets.
Hale would treat them as capable.
Capable enough to understand why the rules existed.
Competent enough to follow them.
Marla comes into view along the wall on her morning run. She takes the same route most days, close to the stone where the early sun has yet to reach.
She spots Hale and smiles, lifting one hand as she approaches.
“Lieutenant Hale! Good morning! Busy day today, eh? Do you have plans for the Festival? Will you be there?”
“Morning, Marla. Yes. I’ll be making my rounds there this evening. I’m expected to attend the Burning of Warmth ceremony.”
“Will you, maybe…” Marla stumbles a little while jogging in place. “Sorry, have time for dinner with a citizen?”
Hale opens his mouth to answer.
Shouting breaks out farther down the street, near Merrin’s dye shop.
His attention turns toward it. Hale gives Marla a quick nod and starts down the street.
Arriving at the shop, Hale finds Dorian already there.
One of Anderson’s patrol. Decent. Committed. Follows the Watch Handbook.
And then, unbidden:
Why would I eat after the ceremony? They always have food there. I can return to my duties afterward.
“Dorian, report?”
“Someone was trying to engrave their name into one of the foundational supports of Merrin’s shop. Kind of sweet, actually. Meredith and I did something like that when we were younger, down by the Royal Grove. D + M = 4EVA. Tough work on Gloom-Oak. Gods, that’s cringey now—”
“Okay. I get it, Dorian. All settled?”
“Yes, sir!”
Hale gives Merrin a cursory nod.
Capable. Competent.
Hale returns to the Western Watch Post and looks over the route adjustments he pinned to the shift notice board that morning. Two routes have been closed, their traffic redirected through the streets surrounding the Post.
Closing those two routes directs most of the throughway past here. We can keep a closer eye on things without spreading ourselves as thin.
Lieutenant Marcus Hale remains near the board as the Watch Post moves through its morning routine. Patrols pass from lockers to the supply room, from the supply room to the shift board, then gather around their respective Sergeants.
Sergeant Milrose has the northern routes of the Western District.
Sergeant Anderson has his usual route in the vicinity of the Post.
Sergeant Potvin's patrol has the walls.
Sergeant Koushoku has called off for family matters.
Hale takes his place.
“Okay, squad. We'll be taking the busiest route today—the roads leading toward Market Square. Ready yourselves. I expect we'll be on our toes straight through to ceremony time.”
Hale watches the Sergeants lead their patrols from the Watch Post before leaving with his own command. Dawn had broken only hours earlier, but the sun was out in full force now, its heat already settling over the Western District.
With one hand resting against his scabbard, Lieutenant Marcus Hale leads his patrol along the route toward Market Square.
The roads are busy.
Exactly as expected.
Then the air freezes.
Hale stops.
Looks up.
Just in time to see—
the sun curdle.