The city had fractured, living two lives at once.
By day, the King's city performed a frantic pantomime of confidence. Royal criers announced the festival schedule to anxious crowds. Crimson and gold banners hung garishly from balconies. In the grand plaza, the foundation of the King's monument continued to rise, a monument to the madness that consumed stone and gold while an army marched on the gates.
But when the sun fell, my city awoke.
The Dawn Gate swarmed with shadows. These were not soldiers, but the city's forgotten craftsmen, men I knew from the prison. Convincing the Warden had been a delicate negotiation. I hadn't asked him to release prisoners, but to authorize a "Civic Labor detail" under the same emergency statutes that had secured my pardon.
"They are a security risk," he had said, his voice flat.
"They are a resource," I countered. "Leaving them idle while the city falls is waste. Give me the masons, the kiln workers, the laborers. We will work them under the Captain's guard. It is not freedom; it is productive discipline. It is order."
Order. That was the key. The Warden, who despised the King's chaos more than he despised criminals, had agreed. Each man on that wall was technically still a prisoner, their presence a quiet testament to the Warden's pragmatism.
They worked with a focused intensity, their movements economical and sure. The air was sharp with the smell of wet mortar and the rhythmic chip of hammers on stone as we replaced crumbling facades with the hard, dark bricks I had perfected. Each one set in place was an act of silent rebellion. The Captain of the Guard moved along the scaffolding, his presence a steadying force.
My second front was in the public squares. The night before, a runner from Aliya had delivered a heavy scroll—a copy of the city census, painstakingly transcribed by a loyal scribe in Lukan's office. By the time the markets opened, large wooden boards had been erected. Families emerged from their homes to see their own street and family names painted in neat columns. A murmur of understanding went through the crowd. This was not a royal decree to be ignored; this was a system. Organized. Fair. It was the first sign of competence they had seen in years, and it was more powerful than any banner.
The danger was constant. One night, as I stood on the scaffolding, a lookout hissed from above. "Procession from the palace!"
The Captain and I flattened ourselves into the shadows of the stonework. Below, a group of guards with torches parted the street, their light glinting off the jewels on Prince Kareem's tunic. He was on foot, a retinue of his sycophants trailing behind him. He had come on a whim.
He stopped, his gaze sweeping over our work. A sneer twisted his lips. "What is this pathetic effort? Trying to patch a rotting carcass with mud and spit?"
A hot flash of rage went through me—an echo of the helpless boy I had once been. The urge to solve this problem with a single, thrown brick was a bitter taste in my mouth. I forced it down. Kael's voice echoed in my mind, cold and precise: An emotional response is a tactical error.
Before the thought could take root, the Captain acted. A sharp whistle cut through the night. From a guard post fifty yards down the wall, the sounds of a brawl erupted—shouts, the clash of steel, a convincing scream of pain.
Kareem's head snapped toward the sound, his boredom instantly replaced by irritation. "Discipline in this city has collapsed," he snarled. He stalked toward the staged fight, his guards scrambling to keep up, eager to watch him administer his own brand of justice. The threat receded into the darkness.
The Captain let out a slow breath beside me. "He is a creature of impulse," he murmured. "Easily distracted by the promise of cruelty." He looked at me, his eyes grim in the moonlight. "But his impulses are unpredictable. We cannot afford another night like this."