The outer district camp smelled of wood smoke, boiling cabbage, and the damp grit of four hundred years of neglected runoff.
Across the muddy open plaza, Tessa managed the community bread line alongside four borrowed cast iron stoves.
Over two hundred citizens discarded by the central wardens stood in quiet lines, holding dented tin bowls while waiting for rations.
Hajin drove an iron stake into the cold earth to secure Ferra's third forge guy wire, tightening the braided tension cord.
Down the northern approach, a single hunched silhouette crossed the wooden footbridge without an escort or honor guard.
It was the First Speaker, leaning upon a gnarled walking stick while carrying the heaviest title in the entire metropolitan expanse.
The gathered refugees fell into a stunned, breathless silence, unable to comprehend why the eldest magistrate walked into their squalor.
