Tensions were boiling over. The citizens were horrified.
Everyone in the capital knew the real nature of the Onyx Spire's building materials and the levels of power it could wield. After all, it was the embodiment of the Emperor's control over the Order. So, when they felt the shockwave and saw an entire portion of the Spire vanish, they shuddered to think of the power required to achieve such a thing. It just failed to sit well with them.
And it showed. The delicate veneer of civil order was cracking. Crime rates in the capital were at an all-time high; petty theft, brazen muggings, and gang violence spilled from the alleys into the main thoroughfares. The capital's City Watch command had borne the brunt of the Emperor's incandescent fury. In a bid to smother his anger and regain control, the City Watch big wigs had made a decision.
And now, there was talk of hanging if a guardsman became lax in his duties.
"What does that even mean?" Donning his helmet and picking up his spear, Finian asked.
"What?" came the request for clarification from Conrad.
"How do you become lax when all you have to do is march and patrol?" Finian pressed, a thread of frustration finding its way to his voice.
"I guess we'll know the definition depending on who gets the gallows first."
Finian's team had returned from patrol just two hours ago, but their captain had insisted on another. Fearing the gallows, none had raised a word of protest.
In a matter of moments, the butts of their spears were smacking against the ground as they marched, the hum of their soles a constant rhythm on the cobblestones. It was still in the afternoon, the sun casting long, distorted shadows from the grand market stalls. Their team was one of the few patrolling The Merchant's Curve; a vast, semi-circular district that hugged the curve of the Solar River below the Mesa.
They had been assigned here so long that they knew every alley and every player better than the palms of their hands. So, when they started spending more of their shifts breaking up brawls and investigating an increasing number of bold, daylight thefts in this bustling, chaotic, and vital commercial hub, they knew that the city's tipping point was terrifyingly close. For now, they just carried on, watching, waiting for the next fool who wanted to test them.
As they rounded a corner into the sprawling labyrinth of the Grand Bazaar, a commotion immediately caught their eye. The usual cacophony of haggling, bartering, and gossip had coalesced into a single, roaring point of interest. A crowd had formed, but at the sound of marching boots and smacking spear butts, it swayed, creating a path for the city's guards. Lately, the guards had become increasingly brutal, and the fear showed on the faces of those near Finian's team.
Still, he could let himself be distracted. If they are calm, there is nothing for me to do. As his team got a better look at the cause of the commotion, an angry, arrogant voice cut through the air. Its owner had seen the Watch arrive but could not back down. To concede now would be devastating.
"Twelve crowns? For this eastern rubbish? Do you know who I am? My house supplied the velvet for the Emperor's jubilee cloaks!"
Finian saw the owner of the voice: a young man in his early twenties, built on a frame that had never known a day of true labor. He possessed the delicate features and pale, unweathered skin of a life spent in shaded gardens and lamplit salons. His hair, the color of weak tea, was styled in the court's fashion—a deliberate, artful mess that required a servant half an hour to achieve. His eyes were his most active feature: a pale, watery blue that darted about, constantly assessing who was watching him.
"I know very well, Lord Pelias. And I also know that was two generations ago. The price is twelve crowns. The eastern passes are nearly cut off. This is the last shipment I will see for a year, if ever."
The answer came from a man in his fifties, built like a well-stuffed ledger—solid, substantial, and immovable. His face was broad and open, his hair a thick, steely grey cropped short in a no-nonsense style. His hands were his most telling feature: broad-palmed with thick, strong fingers. They were not the soft hands of a man who only counts money, but the capable hands of one who has hauled crates and inspected fabrics for imperfections.
"This is extortion! You grubbers in the dirt see a noble house and think you can bleed us dry! I will have your license for this!" Lord Pelias's face flushed.
"My license is in perfect order. And my ledger is open to the prefects. You, however, might wish to be careful with your threats. Your house's tab at the Silver Ewer tavern is... substantial. And overdue. The owner is a cousin of mine." The merchant leaned forward, planting his hands on the counter, a cold smile gracing his face by the end of his statement.
A hush fell over the immediate vicinity. This was no longer about silk. That had been a jab. A power move.
"You dare? You filth-born churl! I will not be spoken to—" Lord Pelias sputtered, his voice losing its aristocratic polish, becoming shrill.
"That's enough. The street is blocked."
The debacle had been interesting, but it was becoming dangerous to let it continue.
Their captain did not draw his weapon. Instead, he simply stepped into the space between them, his broad shoulders breaking their line of sight. He spoke with a voice that was low, firm, and utterly weary.
"Watchman! Arrest this man! He is engaging in wartime profiteering and slandering a peer of the realm!" the noble demanded, eager to redirect his fury to a safer target.
In response, the merchant just folded his arms, saying nothing.
Seeing no further response from either, the captain looked from the noble's flushed face to the merchant's calm one. He didn't even glance at the silk.
"Lord Pelias," he began, his tone devoid of respect but full of procedural correctness. "The prefect's office handles price disputes. I can direct you there. As for slander..." He finally looked at the other man. "Merchant, did you threaten the Lord's person?"
"I stated a commercial fact about a public debt, guardsman. Nothing more."
The captain knew it was a lie, but one that could not be disproven. It was a threat, but a perfectly legal one.
"There is no crime I can act on here, my lord. You are causing a disturbance. Move along," the captain said, turning back to Pelias.
The tension in the city had not been here for long, but it was already warping perspectives. To the people, the shouting noble represented an aristocracy grown stagnant, living on inherited prestige while real power—economic, logistical, and informational—slipped into the hands of the merchant class. He was a ghost of the old times, haunting the markets of the new, screaming to be seen as relevant.
After the confrontation dissolved, the captain didn't immediately move. He stood for a moment, his back to the merchant's stall, letting the noise of the market wash over him again. The specific, sharp tension of the argument was gone, replaced by the general, humming anxiety of the city. Turning his head, he nodded to his men.
They didn't go straight to the watch-house. They resumed their circuit of the Merchant's Curve, a silent, observant presence. On the way, Finian nodded to a baker he knew was skimping on flour. They ignored a pickpocket they had already warned twice that day, and stopped to help an old woman whose cart had a stuck wheel. These small, automatic actions—as Finian believed—were the real work of keeping the peace. Not hanging guardsmen for not beating the city to serenity.