The city was no longer a single organism. It was a wound, split down the middle.
On one side lay the Sanctuaries. Makeshift fortresses of light and noise, draped in colorful banners, humming with the chaotic energy of Project Orpheus. Here, the streets were alive. People gathered not to drill, but to connect. Musicians played on street corners, their melodies a defiant counterpoint to the silence above. Artists painted murals on the ruined walls, turning scars into stories. It was messy. It was loud. It was human.
On the other side lay The Bastion. A grid of grey steel and enforced silence. Here, the streets were empty, save for the rhythmic patrol of Vorn's soldiers. Curfews were absolute. Order was paramount. The only sound was the hum of the fabricators, churning out weapons that Arden knew were useless. It was safe. It was clean. It was a graveyard waiting to be filled.
