The air in the Lower District is thick today—a choking mixture of soot from the forges and the cloying, metallic scent of monster blood that hasn't quite been scrubbed from the cobblestones yet. The 'Critical Alert' from last night has been downgraded to a 'Low Alert,' and the city is already crawling back to its feet with a practiced, weary efficiency.
Nearby, a repair crew is hoisting a jagged slab of stone back onto a collapsed storefront, their rhythmic grunts punctuated by the distant, sharp clack-clack of guardsmen in mismatched plate armor patrolling the alleyways. Life in the city doesn't pause for mourning; it only pauses for the next bell.
أنت stands near a communal water trough, watching a group of young aspirants in the Barracks District yard across the way. They look exhausted, their wooden practice swords heavy in their hands, yet they keep swinging. In this city, you are either a tool of defense or a liability.
A passing wagon loaded with charred timber rattles past, the driver barely sparing أنت a glance. "Make way," he mutters, his voice raspy from smoke. "Unless you're planning on helping with the north wall, get off the main thoroughfare."
