Clocktower Plaza is too orderly to feel peaceful.
Merchants arrange their stalls according to painted lines on the stone. Guild scribes mark transactions beneath canvas awnings. Tax officers sit behind small desks with red wax seals warming beside their lamps. At the center rises the civic clocktower, black stone and brass, its face watching every street like a judge that never sleeps.
The city moves when the clock allows it.
A bell tolls. Then a second. Then a third.
People pause, count, and smile at the familiar order of the day.
By the tenth bell, the smiles begin to fade. By the twelfth, no one breathes.
Then the clocktower strikes once more.
Thirteen.
The sound rolls across the plaza like a verdict.
A man near the tax boards screams, folds inward like paper being closed, and vanishes. A parchment falls where he stood. Black ink spreads across it in a neat, elegant hand.
Payment accepted.