The great plaza of Ar smells of roast tarsk, fresh bread, and paga spice. Banners of the Ubar's house hang gold and scarlet from every colonnade. It is the Harvest Festival, and the city is drunk on plenty.
Ubar of Ar — standing on the dais of the Central Cylinder, arms raised — his voice booms over the crowd:
"People of Ar! The fields have yielded! The barns overflow! Let no belly go empty this night! Let the games begin!"
The crowd roars.
Head Guard Ortossi — you see him at the base of the dais, helmet under his arm, hand resting on the hilt of his short sword. His eyes never stop moving, scanning the throng for cutpurses and assassins. He steps to you and speaks low:
"Stay close to the dais. Festival nights are merry, but a knife moves fastest in a crowd. I have doubled the watch on the grain wagons and the wine casks."
Lady Zoe — veiled in yellow silk edged with gold, a free woman of high station — laughs and lifts a goblet of juice. She turns to her friend:
"Lina, did you see the dancers from the Isle? Ortossi, you old grump, you must drink something tonight. Even the Ubar has declared it law to be joyful!"
Free Woman Lina — younger, bright-eyed, in a simple blue festival robe — leans in, whispering excitedly:
"I've never seen so many outlanders! They say the Ubar will light the great harvest fire himself at dusk, and free a hundred verr to the poor! Ortossi, will your guards march in the torch parade?"
Ortossi allows himself a rare grin.
"Aye, we march. And you two will watch from the Ubar's balcony where it's safe, by his order. No wandering the stalls alone after dark."
The Ubar descends the steps, clapping Ortossi on the shoulder.
"Well spoken, my Captain. Tonight we are not ruler and ruled, but Ar one and all. Come, let us walk among them!"
The sun dips low. The plaza is packed shoulder to shoulder. The smell of roast bosk hangs heavy.
Ubar of Ar turns to you, his festival robes brushing your armor:
"Ortossi. Report."
Lady Zoe adjusts her veil, watching you with amusement. Free Woman Lina holds a basket of harvest cakes, offering one toward you.
What are your orders, Captain? The torch parade forms in an hour, the crowd grows restless near the wine casks, and Lady Zoe insists on walking the stalls.
You snap your helmet on and raise your fist. Your guards snap to attention, spears grounding as one.
"First and second spear! Wedge formation! Third spear, hold the dais and the Ladies!"
Ubar of Ar grins broadly and steps down into the crowd with you at his right shoulder, hand on your sword hilt.
The people part, then surge forward cheering — "The Ubar! The Ubar!"
Lady Zoe calls from the balcony, laughing: "Ortossi! You take him into the lion's den and leave us caged like songbirds?"
Free Woman Lina waves a harvest cake at you: "Bring us back something sweet, Captain!"
You keep your eyes moving — left, right, rooftops. A child offers the Ubar a garland of wheat. He kneels to accept it, placing it on his own head. The crowd erupts.
A drunk merchant stumbles too close to the Ubar with a cup of paga. You step between them, shield up, voice iron:
"Hold! Drink and be merry, but you do not touch the Ubar."
The man pales and bows deeply. The Ubar laughs and claps your pauldron.
"Well done, Ortossi. See? They love, they do not fear. Lead on to the grain wagons — I would bless the harvest myself."
The wedge moves forward through the cheering sea toward the great wagons piled high with golden sa-tarna.
Captain, the crowd thickens ahead near the wagons. Your scouts signal a bottleneck. Do you halt the Ubar here, or push through to the wagons?
Spears forward! Shields lock! Push through — slow and steady!" you bark.
Your guards lower their shields into a moving wall. The crowd presses, laughing, singing, but they give way before disciplined steel.
Ubar of Ar walks tall in the pocket of your wedge, nodding to farmers, touching the golden sa-tarna sheaves as you pass.
Ahead, the great grain wagons tower, piled high. Priests of the harvest wait with oil and fire.
Suddenly — a shout from your left flank!
A boy, no more than ten, darts under the spears, straight toward the Ubar's legs!
Your hand flies to your sword —
But the Ubar raises a hand to stop you. "Hold, Ortossi!"
The boy holds up a small, carved wooden tarn, breathless: "For... for you, Ubar! My father carved it for harvest!"
Silence in your wedge.
The Ubar kneels, takes the toy with both hands, solemn as a treaty.
"Tell your father the Ubar of Ar will keep it by his throne."
The crowd erupts. Women weep. Men cheer your name too now: "Ortossi! Ortossi!"
From the balcony far behind, you see Lady Zoe clapping, and Free Woman Lina jumping up and down waving.
You allow yourself one breath. The wagons are reached. The way is clear to the blessing platform.
"Captain," the Ubar says quietly, for your ears only, "your caution saved my dignity, and your mercy just now saved my heart. Ar is fortunate."
He steps up to bless the harvest.
The priests hand him the torch. The great harvest fire awaits his flame. Your perimeter is holding, but the press of the crowd is growing behind you. Do you tighten the wedge, or let more citizens close to witness the lighting?
You give the signal — two fingers spread wide.
"Open ranks! Let them close — slowly! Third spear, give ground by paces!"
Your guards step back in perfect order, shields angling outward to make a wider circle. The people gasp, then surge forward with joy, filling the space around the wagons — farmers with their families, children on shoulders, all straining to see.
Ubar of Ar lifts the torch high. The flame catches the wind.
"People of Ar!" he cries. "By this fire, we remember — Ar endures because you endure!"
He plunges the torch into the great harvest pyre. WHOOMPH. Golden fire roars skyward. Sparks spiral like tiny stars.
The crowd goes wild.
From the balcony, Lady Zoe lifts her goblet to you in salute, mouthing "Well done, Captain."
Free Woman Lina is already pushing her way down the stairs with a guard escort you assigned, basket of cakes held high, handing them to children near your line. She catches your eye and beams.
"Ortossi! Look! No swords needed — only bread!"
The Ubar turns to you, firelight gleaming on his face, the little wooden tarn tucked safely in his belt.
"You chose wisely, my Head Guard. Strength to protect, and wisdom to trust. Tonight, let the watch drink in shifts. You will join me at the high table."
He clasps your forearm.
The festival night has truly begun, Captain. Music starts. Dancers spin around the fire. Will you take your place at the Ubar's table, or remain on the line with your guards?
You remove your helmet, tuck it under your arm, and nod to your second.
"Decius, you have the line. No man drinks more than one cup on watch. Double the rooftop lookouts till moonrise."
"Yes, Captain!" he salutes.
You follow the Ubar of Ar up to the high table set before the Central Cylinder, overlooking the fire. The crowd cheers as you take the seat of honor at his right hand.
Servants bring roast bosk, black bread still steaming, honeyed sa-tarna cakes.
Lady Zoe glides down from the balcony and takes her seat across from you, smiling behind her yellow veil.
"At last, the lion leaves his post. Tell me, Ortossi, was it very terrible to smile at the people?"
Free Woman Lina squeezes in beside you, setting a fresh cake on your plate unasked.
"You were magnificent! I saw it all! The boy with the tarn — I cried!"
The Ubar raises his goblet. Stands. The plaza falls hushed.
"To Ortossi! Head Guard of Ar! Who keeps us safe with steel, and teaches us when to sheathe it!"
"TO ORTOSSI!" ten thousand voices roar.
You stand, briefly uncomfortable, and lift your cup of water — for you will not drink wine on duty.
"To Ar," you answer simply.
Zoe laughs, Lina cheers, and the music swells louder around the harvest fire.
The night is yours, Captain.
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