The heavy hemp ropes hissed through the cold evening air, binding two hundred groaning men to the flagstones.
At Hour 530, Cassian Vance writhed in the crater at the base of the steps, refusing to surrender. Across the grand plaza, Captain Vorn strode over shattered cobbles in felt-soled boots as the nine hundred prefecture guards moved with disciplined precision. They stripped spiked iron breastplates from the fallen bandits and kicked notched cleavers into wooden handcarts.
Not a single shout echoed between the stone buildings.
Every guard had a strip of oiled cloth tied across his nose and mouth to block the foul stench of scorched sulfur and curdled blood.
“Check their mouths,” Vorn whispered to a squad corporal. “Make sure they have no hidden poison pellets under their tongues. If anyone resists, tap him behind the ear with a wooden cudgel.”
The corporal nodded, prying open the jaw of a fallen berserker with a blunt bronze spatula.
Beside the dried lotus fountain, Alchemist Linnea knelt beside a row of twelve bound prisoners.
Deacon Lucius Vane walked beside her, holding an open inventory parchment and a small iron inkpot. His brow was furrowed with quiet concern.
