Patroller

The night hushes when a Patroller walks the ramparts of Skygarde. Steel-rimmed boots tread quiet stone; cloak clasped against chill wind. Below, windows glow with lanterns, far-off watchtowers flicker torches, but it is the Patroller who ensures silence remains safe.   They walk the city walls, glance past gatehouses, whisper through empty yards. Moonlight catches on blade and badge. They observe—lists not of enemies yet, but of vulnerabilities: a misplaced plank, a gate left ajar, a distant howl. They carry no banner in battle, no sweeping war-cry. Their victory is peace in dawn-light: nothing broken, nothing stolen, no walls breached. Skygarde wakes to find its stones intact, its people sleeping in calm. That is the Patroller’s doing.