Cassian was counting crates in the yard when the soldiers arrived. They wore field gear and carried rifles slung low across their backs. The gate guard let them through without challenge — it was a trading day, and the rules didn't say anything about uniforms. But soldiers didn't shop. They mapped. They counted. They measured fields of fire. They fanned out near the marble gateway at the post's center, the carved columns rising twice the height of a man. The carvings told old stories neither side claimed anymore. Cassian had chosen it for that reason — neutral ground needed neutral symbols. One soldier lingered at the base, running his hand along the steps as if admiring the stonework. His eyes tracked the sightlines to the guard towers. Another soldier crouched by a merchant's stall, pretending to examine wool blankets. Something flat and iridescent caught the light as he shifted — a scrying pad tucked against his belt, the kind surveyors used for recording distances and angles. He wasn't looking at the blankets. He was looking past them, toward the supply shed and the water barrels. Cassian walked straight toward the gate, his boots loud on the packed earth. The soldiers saw him coming and straightened, their casual act thinning. He stopped at the marble steps and crossed his arms. "The post opens at dawn and closes at dusk," he said. "You've got two hours. After that, the rules apply to everyone." The lead soldier nodded once, slow and deliberate. They didn't leave, but they stopped pretending. The mapping would continue — but now they knew he was watching.