Across the Upper Citadel, four grand avenues had never been so lonely at mid-morning.
Normally, the granite boulevards teemed with palanquins of wealthy silk merchants, armored escorts of the regional guard posts, and students from the seven recognized martial academies.
Now, iron shop shutters slammed shut in rapid row across the merchant ward.
Greasy rain slicked the flat stone slabs, reflecting the glare of smoking pine torches carried by armored men.
Every fifty paces along the central boulevard, inner students of the Dragon-Tiger Pavilion stood in pairs, their broad-shouldered silhouettes wrapped in black layered-scale coats and brass shin guards.
Across their backs hung seven-ring heavy sabers. In their hands rested heavy repeating crossbows strung with braided ox tendon.
Each iron bolt tip glistened with the sickly oily green of boiled raven bile and corpse-numbing venom.
Between the pairs of guards paced massive mastiffs, their leather muzzles studded with iron spikes.
