The last night of the Moonwake Festival dawned with a sky of profound, unsettling beauty.
The three moons—the familiar, silvery orb, its slightly smaller twin, and the shimmering, translucent ghost moon—climbed slowly over the eastern horizon in perfect, synchronized harmony.
Their light, a wash of ethereal silver-blue, bathed the entire city, making its wards and spires glow with a preternatural radiance.
The city was a masterpiece of light and shadow, but it was a masterpiece built on a foundation of bone-deep fear.
Below, the festival was a shell.
No dancers moved in the squares.
No vendors called out their wares. The streets were filled not with joyous crowds, but with a silent, vigilant army of guards and faction students.
Every alley, every rooftop, every open plaza had a squad, a team, a single watchman.
The air was thick with tension, a palpable hum of a city that was holding its breath, waiting for a blow that had been promised but had yet to fall.
