The administrative mansion of the city had lain dormant for nearly a month, its halls once filled with the hum of bureaucratic routine now echoing only with the ghosts of unfinished work.
The ledgers had gathered dust. The tax scrolls, meant to be unfurled and reviewed, had instead remained untouched, curling at their ends like dying leaves. The grand wooden desks—once seats of power where the city's fate was dictated in ink—had been abandoned in favor of more urgent matters.
For the past weeks, governance had not been measured in quill strokes but in iron and blood. There had been no collections of moetary levies, no merchant inspections, no council meetings to bicker about budget. Instead, there had been siege lines, barricades, rationing, and curfews enforced with an iron grip. The laws of trade and commerce had been replaced by the laws of survival.
