The rhythm of the Watch was a symphony of harsh, practical notes: the scrape of blades on whetstones, the thud of firewood being split, and the low murmur of patrol reports. In the days following Damien's lesson, I moved through it with a new, focused intent. The monstrous tide he described and the cold, spiritual war I foresaw had merged into a single, looming shadow. My vague resolve to become useful crystallized into a silent, daily regimen.
