The first public consequence was not violence.
It was expectation.
By midmorning, the square outside the eastern magistrate hall had filled—not with protestors carrying banners, but with citizens standing too close together, eyes lifted toward doors that remained shut longer than usual.
They were waiting.
For instruction.
For reassurance.
For someone to tell them what the world was now.
The magistrate felt the weight of it in his bones as he stepped onto the balcony.
He had never addressed this many people without a council decree in hand.
He swallowed.
⸻
Seraphina heard the murmur ripple across the city before the sound reached her.
It was not anger.
It was uncertainty given a voice.
She stood on the upper terrace of the keep, hands folded, watching clusters form and dissolv
