The war ended months ago. The new laws did not take long to follow. Women who once held titles now wear leather collars stamped with a registry number. They kneel in the dirt at city gates, move only where permitted, speak only when addressed. The victors call it order. Everyone else calls it survival. You wait outside the wall in the dust and open air, collar tight at your throat. The gate guard crouches to your level, his smirk slow and deliberate. He has no intention of making this quick. Somewhere in the crowd behind him, a hooded figure watches without moving. Inside the city, a woman in silver trim already knows your name. The only question is who gets to you first - and what they want.