**Corporal Garrick Thorne's Log, Supplemental**
**Rothguard, Occupied City recording**
**37 days after Rothgard's Fall**
The enemy walks our streets.
But the city still whispers our names.
Garrick Thorne moved through the western gate with the morning caravan, shoulder to shoulder with labourers and merchants under the watchful eyes of Imperial guards. The knot-mark he had left on the barrel outside the gate the night before was already gone—someone loyal had seen it and erased it. That small victory settled like a quiet fire in his chest as he and Mira Calder walked side by side, pretending to be a married couple looking for work on the docks. Mira kept her arm linked through his, her head slightly bowed in the manner of a tired wife, while her sharp eyes missed nothing.
The imperial oppression was on full display the moment they stepped inside the walls. Black banners of the Draco Imperia hung from every tower and gatehouse, their edges frayed from salt wind. Patrols in dark armour marched in rigid formation through the streets, their boots ringing against the cobblestones that had once echoed with the laughter of traders. Groups of chained slaves—beastkin and humans alike, marked by iron collars and raw welts from whips—were herded toward the expanded military dock and industrial district, where the constant clang of hammers and roar of forges never ceased. Guards barked orders laced with bigotry, calling the wolfkin "filthy animals" and the elves "pointed-eared cowards" as they drove them into the labour gangs. A young cat-kin woman stumbled under the weight of a heavy crate; an Imperial soldier kicked her hard in the ribs, sending her sprawling. "Move, beast, or I'll chain you to the dock and let the tide take you!" the guard snarled, drawing cruel laughter from his comrades. Citizens who dared look too long were shoved roughly aside or struck with the butt of a spear. The air reeked of fear, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood.
Garrick kept his voice low as they walked, his broad frame shielding Mira from casual glances. "The barracks are the old warehouse district along the north wall—three full blocks now flying the black flag. They've reinforced the walls with fresh stone and added mage-canon emplacements facing the sea. The industrial district south of the market is running day and night—smithies forging armour and repairing siege engines. The noble district on the eastern foothills is new construction, half-finished villas for Imperial officers. They're expanding the city outward, thinking the cliffs make them untouchable."
Mira's grip on his arm tightened slightly in acknowledgment, her expression one of a weary wife listening to her husband. "The military dock is the real prize. Fresh berths, supply stockpiles stacked high. We mark the cranes and the main warehouses." They continued toward the central market, weaving through the crowd as if they belonged there. The Silver Anchor tavern stood at the edge of the square, its weathered sign still swinging despite the black banner draped above the door. As they passed a large barrel stacked beside a merchant stall, Garrick slowed just long enough to carve the Rothgard knot-mark low on the wood—three interlocking lines pierced by a single straight slash. The motion was smooth, almost casual, hidden by the press of bodies.
They had only gone a few paces when a slender figure in a patched cloak stepped from the shadow of the stall. An elf, tall and lean with sharp features and silver-streaked hair, moved with the quiet grace of someone who had spent years avoiding notice. His eyes locked on Garrick for a heartbeat, then flicked to the barrel where the fresh mark still glistened. Recognition flashed across his face—recognition of both the man and the symbol.
The elf did not approach openly. Instead, he fell into step a careful distance behind them, moving like just another labourer heading toward the market. Garrick felt the presence immediately and gave Mira's arm a subtle squeeze. She acknowledged it with the slightest tilt of her head, her voice dropping to a whisper only he could hear. "We have a shadow. Friendly, I think. The knot-mark worked."
Garrick kept walking, his posture relaxed, but every sense alert. The elf continued to follow at a discreet distance, never closing the gap, never drawing attention. Ahead, the Silver Anchor waited. The rest of the squad would be arriving soon—Darius and Elara from the western gate, Rylan and Tobin from the northern trail. They would gather inside, share what they had seen, and begin the real work of turning their home back into a blade. For now, Garrick and Mira continued their quiet stroll through the market, two ordinary citizens among the occupied, while behind them an elf who still remembered the old codes followed like a silent promise.
Rothguard was watching. And it was beginning to remember.