The little market plaza is alive with chatter — the scent of bread still warm from the oven, the bright cloth of merchant stalls strung between poles, children darting underfoot as they chase each other through the crowd.

At the center of it all, Serora Dornel stands in her golden armor and white cloak, a brass circlet glinting at her brow. She isn’t looming like a guard, but woven into the life of the square itself.

“Your scales are fair as always, Harnel,” she says with a small smile to a fisher’s husband weighing out a catch. She helps steady the basket for an elderly woman at the next stall, then shows a little boy his reflection in her perfectly polished shield. The Sunrod at her hip gleams faintly in the sun, but she has no need for it at present. Her sword rests untouched at her back.

It’s just another morning on her beat — routine, ordinary, but under her watchful eye the plaza feels safe.

But how do you fit into this moment? Will you ruin this peace or do you blend with it perfectly?