The third morning of festival preparations came in warm and slow, dragging a haze of sun through half-constructed archways and the faint, ever-present scent of varnish.
Tarin lay stretched on a low bench beside the quarter post, arms tucked behind his head, watching a pair of apprentices try to hang streamers between two poles that clearly weren't measured the same height.
"They've been arguing about angles for twenty minutes," he said. "At this point, I'm rooting for gravity."
Milo, perched on the stair rail with a pastry of questionable origin in hand, didn't even look up. "The one on the left thinks he's a scaffold expert. Been gesturing with that hammer like he's composing an opera."
Joss stood nearby, leaned against the corner post of the checkpoint board, flicking the edge of a matchbook open and shut. "If he falls, I'm calling it: ladder failure due to ego."
Tarin snorted. "That'll go great in the incident report. 'Collapsed under weight of personal confidence.'"
"With additional injuries sustained from landing in his own toolbox," Milo added, tearing off another bite.
They chuckled — not unkindly, just bored. The kind of ease that only came after too many hours standing post in a district that had, so far, produced nothing more dangerous than a runaway ribbon cart.
Across the square, Aria remained at her elevated post. Silent. Still. She hadn't spoken all morning, nor moved much beyond a shift of weight or a quiet sweep of her eyes across the rooftops.
Joss glanced toward her, then back at the others. "She hasn't even blinked."
"She has," Tarin said.
"Prove it."
"I can't, obviously. That's how good she is."
Milo gave a low hum. "You think she eats? Like... during normal hours? Or does she just absorb nutrients from the wind?"
Tarin propped one elbow up. "You think she even sleeps?"
"Not with both eyes," Joss said. "Bet she's one of those who just perches on a roof like a gargoyle and judges moonlight."
Milo let out a low whistle. "Honestly? Wouldn't be surprised if the moon apologized."
Tarin chuckled. "Bet she's the reason this quarter's had zero incident reports. Trouble sees her coat and decides to reschedule."
"Or relocate," Joss added. "Preferably to a different city."
Milo popped the last bit of pastry into his mouth and dusted his hands off on his trousers. "I'm just saying — if something does go wrong, I'm watching her reaction before I even unclip my badge."
They all nodded like that was a perfectly reasonable emergency protocol.
A pause settled again, just long enough for the creak of a vendor cart to roll across the square. One of the streamers finally slipped its knot and drifted to the ground. The apprentice below stared at it like it had personally betrayed him.
Then—
A crash. Sharp. Close. The sound of splintering wood followed by a sharp yell.
All three Vigils turned.
Around the far corner of the square, a small delivery cart had tipped sideways, one wheel caught on a gutter edge. Crates of festival glassware spilled across the stone — some intact, most not. A pair of red-faced vendors were already halfway into an argument.
"I told you to slow down!"
"You told me after the wheel jumped!"
"No, I told you when we passed the bakery!"
"That's not slowing down — that's braking for snacks!"
Tarin winced. "Great. Local glass. That's going to be a form."
"Two forms," Milo said. "Broken cargo and breach of perimeter protocol."
Joss tilted his head. "Technically we're supposed to step in."
"No one's bleeding," Tarin muttered. "Let 'em bicker it out."
They didn't move. Neither did Aria.
She remained at her post — still, watchful, detached. If she noticed the shouting, she gave no sign. No tilt of the head, no flick of the eyes. Just that same unreadable calm.
The vendors carried on — not wildly, just loudly. Gesturing, swearing softly, scrambling to pick up what they could. A few festival workers nearby looked up, mildly interested, then returned to their tasks.
Milo leaned back on the rail again. "You think she logs this kind of thing?"
Joss shook his head. "Nah. Too small."
"Feels like she could stop it, though," Tarin added. "Not that she should. But, like... she could."
"Probably why she doesn't," Joss said.
"Scariest thing in the square," Milo muttered, "is the one person who never looks worried."
The argument by the tipped cart was reaching new decibel levels.
One of the vendors had a broom now — not using it, just wielding it dramatically like a pointer as he jabbed toward the cracked crates. The other was red in the face, gesturing so wildly he nearly knocked over a decorative lantern.
"—should've listened when I said the wheel felt off this morning!"
"No, you said the wheel looked off. That's not the same. You want to be the wheel whisperer, learn to use your brakes!"
"You had the brakes!"
"I had the pastries!"
"Exactly! You can't deliver festival glass and dessert at the same time!"
The broom waved dangerously.
From their perch, the three Vigils watched like it was the midmorning show.
Tarin clicked his tongue. "We're one insult away from someone getting smacked with a dustpan."
"Two," Milo said, squinting. "One of them's still trying to salvage pride. That'll slow the swing."
Joss crossed his arms. "Should we... do something?"
Tarin shrugged. "We're observing. That counts."
Milo leaned forward. "Ten aurin says someone yells 'My cousin's a blacksmith' before the end."
"I'll take that bet," Joss replied. "But only if someone mentions ancestors."
Across the square, the shouting grew sharper — not dangerous, just petty and increasingly theatrical. Festival workers on scaffolds were now watching from above, a few apprentices whispering over their shoulders.
Still, Aria didn't move.
She stood unmoved by it all, like the chaos simply didn't qualify for her attention.