Silence is easiest to impose when no one notices it arriving.
It doesn’t fall like a curtain. It seeps in, inch by inch, until people forget the sound of their own voices echoing back at them.
By morning, the city feels wrong.
Not quieter.
Controlled.
The first sign isn’t the absence of noise. It’s the absence of interruption.
Arguments stop mid-sentence. Laughter cuts short, glances darting instinctively toward Candle patrols who don’t ask questions anymore. They don’t need to.
Their presence answers them.
Irena notices it while walking the southern loop. A street performer stands on a crate, lute in hand, fingers frozen above the strings.
He sees the Candles approaching and steps down without being asked.
No one tells him to stop.
No one tells him he can’t.
He just… knows.
T
