The first patrol lanterns lit Low Weave before sunset.
Not torches. Not blaze. Lanterns with steady glass shields, carried at chest height so every face they passed could be seen clearly.
And recorded.
Soryn stood at the balcony rail again, watching the Watch Captain brief his enforcers below.
"No intimidation," he instructed. "Presence only. Record irregular gatherings. Log every interaction. No steel drawn unless escalation is immediate."
"Immediate?" one enforcer asked.
"Physical aggression," the Captain said. "Not shouting."
A few nodded reluctantly.
Soryn caught the hesitation.
"Rotate them tomorrow," she told the scribe. "Fatigue breeds excess."
"Yes, Warden."
"And send bread to the outer watch posts. Quietly."
The scribe blinked. "Bread?"
"If we ration the city, we ration evenly," she said.
Evenly.
Another word that sounded clean.
In Low Weave, the lantern light exposed patched walls and narrow stairways. It turned poverty into something visible enough to catalogue.
The boy from the line watched from a doorway as an enforcer paused outside his building.
"Household count?" the enforcer asked.
"Three," Iri answered.
"Registry shows two."
"Verification was logged."
The enforcer checked his board.
After a moment, he nodded.
"Provisional compliance."
Provisional.
The word felt like a loan that would demand interest later.
Down the alley, Sable Crier moved quietly between doorways offering small vials.
"Sleep will come easier," he whispered. "You won't hear the boots."
Several hands accepted.
Several hands refused.
Fear was diversifying.
In the square, Kael stood beneath the fractured mirrors again, reviewing the clerk's amended flow.
District verification scheduled at dusk. Distribution by pre-cleared lists at dawn.
"You're implementing it?" he asked.
"We're testing it," the clerk replied stiffly. "Temporary measure."
He nodded once.
"Track error rates," he said.
She stared. "Error rates?"
"Miscounts. Delays. Exceptions."
"We're feeding people, not building a machine."
He looked at the ledger.
"You're doing both."
Lyria overheard that.
She didn't like how accurate it sounded.
A commotion broke near the southern stalls—not violence. Confusion.
Two men argued over district assignment. One claimed Old Stone. The ledger marked him Low Weave.
"You changed my district," the man protested.
"You moved," the clerk said.
"Because rent rose."
"Then your ration adjusts."
"My children didn't change."
"No," the clerk replied. "Your category did."
The word hit harder than any insult.
Garron stepped forward, iron fingers flexing.
"Enough," he said.
The men quieted.
Not because he threatened them.
Because he was something solid in a moment that felt slippery.
Lyria exhaled slowly.
Steel was not needed.
Not today.
But something else was sharpening.
Above, Soryn received the first patrol report.
No violence. Three irregular counts corrected. Two warnings issued. One unregistered dependent flagged for census review.
She closed her eyes briefly.
It was working.
The city was stabilizing.
But she felt the cost settling somewhere she couldn't yet measure.
"Post the notice tomorrow," she said at last.
"Curfew?" the scribe asked.
"Yes."
"For how long?"
She hesitated.
"Until order feels natural."
The scribe did not ask how long that would be.
As night fell, the lanterns moved through Low Weave in steady intervals.
Doors closed earlier.
Voices lowered sooner.
Children learned to step back when boots approached.
And in the Market of Fractured Light, the mirrors above reflected fewer faces—
but clearer lines.
Kael walked home counting patrol intervals.
Lyria walked home thinking about the man whose district changed without his consent.
Soryn remained on the balcony long after the square emptied.
She told herself this was protection.
She told herself temporary measures did not become foundations.
But in Low Weave, the boy whispered to Iri before sleep,
"They know where we live now."
And for the first time since the grain line split,
the city did not feel chaotic.
It felt sorted.