---

The square smelled of smoke and cold iron.

Sean stood beneath the arch of a shuttered apothecary, hands folded into his sleeves. Eljara stood beside him, posture straight, gaze sharp.

“They move well,” she said.

“The Empire does not lack choreography,” Sean replied.

The procession advanced across wet cobblestones. Bare-backed penitents walked in measured steps, red stripes deliberate across their skin. No wailing. No frenzy. Only rhythm.

A priest lifted a heavy iron hammer and struck it against a stone plinth.

Clang.

“Order through discipline,” he declared.

The crowd echoed him.

Order through discipline.

Near the fountain, a brazier consumed the last of the carnival masks. Paper curled inward. Paint blistered. Ash rose into the night.

“Efficient,” Eljara murmured.

“Very,” Sean agreed.

A young woman stepped forward and knelt. The cord descended across her back. She inhaled sharply — and exhaled through it.

No shame in her face.

Resolve.

“They’re calmer,” Eljara observed.

“Yes.”

“But not softer.”

“No.”

Further along stood the man who had struck the fatal blow days earlier. He removed his coat without hesitation and knelt.

The cord fell.

Once.

Twice.

He did not flinch.

When he rose, his expression was not broken.

Refined.

“Tempered,” Sean said quietly.

The priest placed a steady hand on his shoulder.

“Sigmar has burned the excess.”

The crowd murmured approval.

Eljara watched the faces — merchants, Watchmen, clerks — kneeling willingly. Stripping coats. Joining the line.

No coercion.

Participation.

A boy no older than sixteen raised the cord himself and struck too hard, too fast.

A murmur passed through the crowd.

Not alarm.

Approval.

The priest stepped in, guiding his hand — correcting, containing.

The boy bowed.

The crowd relaxed.

“There,” Eljara said softly.

“Yes,” Sean replied.

“Too far.”

“And restored.”

The brazier flared as the last mask collapsed into embers.

“They will fast,” Eljara said.

“They will pray,” Sean added.

“They will bleed.”

“And feel clean.”

The hammer rang again.

The square held steady.

No panic.

No chaos.

Only alignment.

Eljara exhaled slowly.

“It looks stable.”

“It is,” Sean answered.

“For how long?”

Sean watched ash settle across stone that had recently held blood.

“Long enough,” he said.

The bells rang.

Steady.

Certain.

The city walked on.

---

MASKS & MASQUERADE
🜍 Month 2 · The Old World · WFRPG
🜍 Week 4 — Order answers excess
🜍 The fire changes direction

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