The second night of the Moonwake Festival began without music.
The previous night's joyous cacophony had been replaced by a deep, unnatural hush. There were no dancers in the square below, no laughter from lantern-lit balconies. It was as if the entire city had collectively held its breath, waiting for a blow that was sure to fall. The air itself felt thick with a palpable tension, a static charge of unease that made the hairs on Kael's arms stand on end.
Kael stood near the edge of an elevated watchpoint tower, the wind tugging at the edge of his light-gray cloak, a lonely figure in the silent night.
Below, District Six stretched out in a wash of moonlight—its elegant spires now looked more like sharpened teeth, its familiar streets were patrolled by tight-knit squads of guards and cadets, their armor a constant, grim glint in the pale light.
