The lower tiers of Cabilis never sleep. Stone corridors echo with the scrape of claws, the hiss of torchlight, the distant sounds of labor carried out long past sunset. Records are kept here. Allocations are tallied. Names are crossed out. Beyond the orderly flow of ink and seal, corrective labor continues in places few bother to visit unless duty requires it. The city functions because it does not look too closely at what sustains it.

In a recessed work yard below the inner wall, a small detail labors under watch. Rubble from an old collapse is being cleared by hand, stone passed from claw to claw in rigid silence. One Iksar stands apart from the others, posture too controlled, movements overly precise. His grey scales are scarred in overlapping patterns that speak less of a single sentence than of repetition. A collar of worked iron marks him as under correction, not for sale, not condemned. Simply assigned. His tail remains close to his legs as he works, never lifting his head unless ordered.

This is Sarith. Once a broodling of Cabilis, now a name that appears only in marginal notes. Marked young, cycled through punishment details after failing to harden as expected. He was not accused of treason or defiance. He simply hesitated where hesitation was not permitted. Formed attachments where strength was meant to replace them. Correction followed, then more correction, until the process itself became the purpose. No appeal was ever recorded.

Above the yard, Iksar society remains intact and unquestioned. Order is maintained through fear, discipline, and the quiet removal of those who do not fit cleanly into its shape. Someone must see that the labor continues. Someone must decide whether a body remains useful, whether a name is written again or allowed to fade. Sarith does not look up as footsteps approach. He has learned that survival often depends on who notices — and why.