The Iron Revolution in a Magic-Scarred World

Nobody had explained the real hassle of patrol duty in a city at war. The task sounded active, but in practice the primary requirement was endurance. You stood, you watched, and you waited for something to justify the preparation. While standing for some more.

Hod had been watching the streets for two hours. His crossbow was loaded and ready, his spear rested within reach against the corner wall, and the bread he had eaten that morning had already burned off, leaving him aware of the deficit.

Ric, shorter by about a hand and dissatisfied with the assignment since before sunrise cleared the citadel roof, had sat onto an upturned crate. He folded his arms like he had concluded that if the war wanted him, it could come to him directly.

"You know what I had before the militia," Ric said, not talking to anyone in particular. His gaze stayed on the ground near his boots, as if addressing the street itself. "I had a whole morning to myself."

"You had nothing," Alf replied. His tone had no urgency. He stood at the south corner, watching the residential road with efficiency. "You woke up, counted your marks, and went to sleep with fewer. That was your routine."

"Least I had time."

"Ric, you slept until midday."

"That still counts. That’s a morning and a half, which is more than I’m getting now."

Hod didn’t join the conversation. His role in the moment was observation, and he kept his attention on the road, tracking the people that passed by.

The residential district was behaving differently today. The first reason was the silence.

Hod had grown up two streets south, back when that part of the city was still considered secure. He knew the noise of routine activity, and this was not it.

Windows on the north-facing side of the corner building were shuttered, which they never were. The vendor who normally occupied the far end of the block was missing.

Traffic from hand-carts that should have been moving along the east-west road behind them had dropped to zero. Each missing thing reinforced the conclusion something was off.

The food carts from the citadel distribution points were still running. Hod’s squad was one of four assigned to validate that "still running" remained accurate rather than aspirational.

That meant protecting the streets and preventing interference, even when nothing obvious was happening.

Col returned from a quick check of the near corner. As squad leader, he handled information flow with minimal ceremony.

He held a folded message from a runner who had passed through about ten minutes earlier.

"The prince came back through the south gate last night," Col said.

Ric shifted, attention finally redirected. "Yeah? Good for him."

"New orders are active as of this morning," Col continued. "We patrol the streets, keep the food carts moving, and do not pursue if his men disengage."

He scanned the squad, then added, "That last part is for Ric."

"What did I do," Ric said, defensive by reflex.

"Nothing yet. This is preventative."

Hod caught up with the update. The prince’s return implied things were bound to change. "So he finally made it back."

"Apparently."

Alf adjusted his stance at the south corner, testing his weight distribution without fully shifting position. "Then pay arrives on time."

"It always arrives on time," Hod said with a grunt.

"I’m linking two facts." Alf replied. "The man goes into the Badlands, allegedly fights a pack of something on the road, and comes back alive. I find that reassuring."

"They weren’t something," Hod said. That was important. "They were Hollow Hounds."

"I’m calling them whatever," Alf said. "The alternative is less comfortable."

Ric pushed himself off the crate.

He picked up his crossbow and checked the load, repeating a habit cycle that gave his hands a task. "How many dead from that convoy?"

"Five," Hod said. "Garrison report. Eight injured returned ahead of the rest."

Ric paused, considering the numbers. "That’s a lot just for a small trip."

"That’s the Badlands," Col said. "If any of you want firsthand experience, I’m sure they are taking volunteers."

No one responded. The risk was obvious.

The first food cart entered the road about twenty minutes later. The driver was a compact woman focused entirely on the path in front of her horse.

She noticed the militia position, considered it as either protection or threat, and chose not to engage.

Hod stepped forward just enough to be clearly visible, then stopped to avoid escalating the interaction.

She passed through and turned south without incident.

"Right," Ric said. "So this is the job."

"This is the job," Col confirmed.

The second cart arrived forty minutes after the first. This driver was older and made direct eye contact with Hod while passing.

Hod returned a brief nod, signaling non-hostility and control of the situation. The driver accepted the signal and continued.

Their day repeated. Nothing active, but tension remained.

Yet the residential district still felt weird. Hod knew that meant change was pending.

Then the change occurred.

Eight men emerged from the alley between the corner building and the one behind it.

For approximately two seconds, they presented as civilians exiting for routine reasons. Their clothing matched the district and there were no weapons visible. On inspection, they fit the environment.

Hod rejected that almost immediately.

He had grown up in these streets and recognized the difference between presence and purpose. These men moved with intent.

Their spacing, their pacing, the way they oriented toward the road indicated coordinated action.

"Col," Hod said.

Col was already watching them.

He opened his mouth to issue a command, but the situation advanced faster than speech.

One of the eight drew a cudgel from under his coat and accelerated toward their position.

"Front!" Col called.

The squad executed the drilled response. T spears came up to form a barrier.

Crossbows rotated into elevated firing positions.

Hod stepped forward and right with the other men, closing the line to remove gaps.

The first strike did not come from the front.

It came from the south.

A second group had positioned themselves beyond the corner building, outside their line of sight. While they were setting up formation, they were flanked from the side.

A cudgel hit Alf’s shoulder with enough force to produce nasty, crunchy sound.

Alf went sideways, bracing against the wall. He exhaled sharply through his teeth.

"Alf’s down!" Ric called, already shifting to cover the exposed section of the line.

Hod raised his crossbow.

The nearest attacker was already inside optimal range.

The attacker did not slow.

Hod fired.

He released the crossbow and transitioned to his short sword before the target body hit the ground.

The motion was instinctual.

He had learned early that actions chained without pause.

The moment one action completed, the next threat was already on top of him.

He turned left, identifying the situation as it developed.