Silence has a reputation it doesn’t deserve.
People assume it means fear. Or exhaustion. Or surrender. They believe that when a city grows quiet, it is because it has nothing left to say.
Outsiders believe that most of all.
They arrive just after dawn.
Not announced.
Not invited.
Three caravans roll in from the western road, banners unfamiliar, colors sharp and deliberate. Armed escorts flank them openly, armor polished enough to reflect the morning light. They don’t hide their strength.
They display it.
The city notices immediately.
Windows open. Conversations stall. Runners pause mid-step, recalculating routes. Not panic—assessment.
The shadow coils, alert.
Predators test stillness before they strike.
The outsiders do not spread out.
They move with intention toward the old j
