Segment 1: A Call for Help
The early evening air rolled cool and quiet over Gatewatch Ward, its narrow streets glowing under amber lanternlight. Officer Kyla Merin shifted her weight in the saddle of her patrol mount, eyes scanning the neighborhood's crooked rooftops and ivy-strung fences. Her partner tonight—Field Training Officer Laren Deyne, a calm, soft-spoken veteran of the early DPS—rode just ahead, casually pointing out boundary markers and old guild symbols etched into cornerstones.
"See that carving?" Deyne said, motioning to a weathered brick chimney. "That was the original Mason's Guild seal. From before alignment. This ward remembers things."
Kyla nodded, taking mental notes. Gatewatch was transitional, a patchwork of fading history and new apprenticeships, where elder settlers shared space—and sometimes tension—with younger tradesfolk. A place full of stories.
And wounds.
Her comm crystal chirped. Then flared.
"Central to Unit Bravo-6. 10-18. Report of 10-91F. Elder female injured. Possible abuse by caregiver. Location flagged near 7th Hollow Lane."
Kyla's posture snapped upright. Deyne had already turned his mount.
"Let's move."
They arrived six minutes later.
The cottage was modest, its outer walls patched with rough plaster and a recent coat of blue-white paint. A cracked rain barrel tipped slightly near the steps. The air smelled of burnt herbs and old wood.
A young woman in a neighbor's apron waited at the gate, eyes wide.
"She's inside," she whispered. "Won't say much. But I saw the bruises."
Kyla and Deyne exchanged a glance. Deyne knocked once, then stepped through.
Inside, the space was dim. Dust hung in the corners, and the fireplace burned low. An elderly woman—late seventies, perhaps more—sat curled on a threadbare chair, her hands trembling in her lap. Her hair was thin and white. Her cheek was swollen. A bandage circled one wrist.
Kyla approached slowly. "Ma'am? I'm Officer Merin with the Royal Troopers. You're safe now. Can I ask your name?"
The woman blinked, eyes unfocused. "Della," she murmured. "But I… I didn't fall. I said I did, but I didn't."
Kyla crouched gently. "That's okay, Della. You don't have to explain yet. But we're going to make sure no one hurts you again."
Footsteps pounded on the back stair.
A young man in stained work clothes burst into the room—mid-twenties, hair matted with sweat.
"What the hell is this? You bringing soldiers into my house?!"
Deyne stepped forward, body square. "Sir, please step back. We're investigating a report of injury to a vulnerable elder."
"She fell! That's all!" he shouted. "This is my family, and you've got no right—"
Kyla's hand rested on her baton, but her voice remained level. "We're asking you to cooperate. Refusing to do so will escalate this to custodial intervention."
He glared at her, jaw clenched.
Kyla tapped her lapel crystal."Unit Bravo-6 to Central. Requesting backup to 7th Hollow Lane. Suspect uncooperative. Confirming felony 10-91F, injuries visible on scene."
Central: "Copy Bravo-6. Units enroute. Hold scene and monitor suspect. Medical notified. Fire enroute per joint policy."
The man stepped back—only half a step—but that was all she needed.
Deyne quietly reached behind and locked the back door.
Kyla stood taller, hand now firm on her belt.
Because Arcadia had sworn that no one—especially not its elders—would suffer unseen.
Segment 2: Enforcement in Motion
The room was still as backup arrived—first the thrum of arc-wheels crunching over gravel, then the polished footfalls of additional troopers stepping onto the porch. Two officers from the Frostmere Rise Police Station, B Division entered the doorway with clipped nods, their uniforms marked with the deep blue trim of urban patrol.
Field Training Officer Laren Deyne turned toward them.
"Suspect inside. Elder female with physical trauma. Affirmed as a 10-91F."
The younger of the two Frostmere Rise officers tilted his head. "Victim recanted?"
Deyne's voice remained even.
"Doesn't matter. Under Arcadian Code, elder abuse is a felony offense. The Kingdom prosecutes regardless of the victim's wishes. Mandated custody and transport in a secured unit."
He gestured toward the suspect, who now stood sullen against the far wall, arms crossed in thinly veiled defiance.
"Prep him. We'll take the statement, but the case has already triggered a system referral."
Outside, the soft red glow of medical runes bathed the street as the Crownstead Fire and Emergency Services Department arrived. Their badge bore the three-pronged crest of the Arcadia Royal Medics (ARM)—cross, shield, and circle.
From the rear of the response wagon stepped EMT Callen Vire—early thirties, fair-complexioned, tactical medical vest neatly worn, a quiet focus in his sea-gray eyes. He moved with purpose, scanning the scene before locking onto the elder seated in the cottage's center.
Kyla stepped back instinctively to give him room. Callen knelt beside the elder and gently touched the back of her wrist.
"Della?" he asked, voice a soft tide. "I'm Callen. I'm a medic with the Royal Service. I'm just going to check you over, alright?"
The woman gave a slow nod, her lip trembling slightly. Callen worked in practiced silence—scanning the contusion on her cheek, gently pressing to check for fractures, murmuring reassurances all the while.
Kyla couldn't help watching—really watching. There was a calm in his presence. Not just skill. Steadiness.
Their eyes met once across the flickering lanternlight.
He offered the smallest of nods—acknowledgment, not bravado.
"Field bruising," he said quietly. "Rib tenderness. Possibly older trauma that never healed properly."
"Transport required?" Kyla asked, stepping closer.
"Yes," Callen replied. "But I'd prefer not to jostle her until I have a clean splint. She's still guarding her right side."
He looked at her again—closer this time.
"You're Officer Merin, aren't you?"
Kyla blinked. "Yeah."
"I've read two of your reports. Clean narrative structure. Straight to the facts. Impressive for a probie."
She blinked again.
"You… read my reports?"
Callen smirked slightly, then refocused on wrapping the elder's arm.
"I like knowing who's protecting the people I treat."
The air between them shifted—subtle, but undeniable.
As the suspect was cuffed, searched, and escorted to the waiting caged patrol unit, Deyne looked to Kyla.
"You see why protocol matters?"
She nodded slowly, still feeling the tension from the encounter ebb, replaced by something else.
"I see why the right people matter."
Segment 3: Shadows of a Court
The barred door clanged shut behind the suspect, its metallic echo reverberating through the stone corridors of the Bayhalden Ward Judicial Annex—a temporary civic holding facility established near the base of the ward's south ridge. The building, though built with summoned masonry and repurposed barracks space, bore all the gravity of emerging Arcadian law: reinforced doors, registry-linked containment runes, and magitech seal crystals keyed to sovereign authority.
Castle Bayhalden stood visible in the distance, overlooking the ward like a quiet sentinel, untouched by the day's business. That was the King's residence—sacred, not administrative.
Officer Kyla Merin stood just inside the receiving corridor of the annex, clutching her report notes with tightly gloved fingers. This wasn't her first scene of violence—but it was her first where justice began immediately after the cuffs clicked shut.
Her Field Training Officer, Laren Deyne, was already speaking with the court official—an older man in gray-violet judicial robes with the scales of Arcadia's temporary court etched in silver thread.
"Magistrate Harwin Kestel," the man introduced, giving a courteous nod to Kyla. "Acting Clerk of Holding under provisional authority until the Court of Alderhelm is fully commissioned. You're the arresting junior?"
"Yes, Magistrate," she said, adjusting her collar.
"You'll be the one preparing the field affidavit," he replied. "Law doesn't wait for a marble hall."
Inside the annex's makeshift courtroom, benches had been laid across the former mess hall, and the raised desk of the presiding clerk was built from reclaimed transport crate wood. Despite its humble trappings, the room thrummed with gravity.
The suspect sat between two Royal Troopers. Cuffed. Head down. The Royal Vigil Banner hung quietly behind the magistrate's desk.
Kyla and Deyne took their places beside a field desk, where she laid out her first felony-level report for court review.
"Begin from the facts," Deyne said. "Short words. No drama. Just the record."
She started reading:
"Upon receipt of a 10-18 dispatch regarding suspected 10-91F elder abuse, Officers Merin and Deyne responded to 7th Hollow Lane in Gatewatch Ward. Victim located in residence with visible trauma. Statements collected, suspect on scene—verbally combative and noncompliant…"
"Pause," said Magistrate Kestel, gently. "Change 'statements collected' to 'initial disclosure obtained.' Let's keep the phrasing judicially neutral."
Kyla adjusted the report. Her hands didn't shake—but her throat tightened.
"You're doing well," Deyne murmured.
After thirty more minutes of refinement and a final review of evidence-handling protocol, the report was sealed with a system-verified mark and entered into the Provisional Pretrial Archive.
Suspect status: Held without bail under Royal Statute IVVictim condition: Stabilized by Royal MedicsHearing venue: Temporary Tribunal Docket, Bayhalden Ward
Kestel placed his personal signet upon the official intake scroll.
"We may be in borrowed space," he said, "but justice does not wait for ceremony."
As they exited the annex into the dusky air of the ward, Kyla looked up toward Castle Bayhalden's outer towers in the distance—touched golden by the last light of day.
"That's the King's home," she murmured.
"Yes," Deyne replied. "And this—" he gestured back at the annex, "—this is his justice."
Segment 4: Justice and Reflection
The parchment glowed softly beneath the weight of the Magistrate's seal, the final signature marking the close of intake. Kyla stood in silence as Magistrate Harwin Kestel returned the stylus to its cradle and leaned forward, voice lower but more deliberate.
"This trial," he said, gesturing to the sealed docket scroll, "will be the first felony proceeding held under the new Articles of Allegiance."
Kyla glanced at her FTO, then back at the magistrate. "The first?"
Kestel nodded once. "The Registry binds the officer. The Oath binds the soul. But the Articles? They bind all of us—Crown, citizen, and court alike. What happens in that chamber will set tone, precedent, and trust for every ward that follows."
He tapped the scroll once.
"We do not yet have marble benches. We do not yet have a High Tribunal. But this is Arcadian justice now. And you helped deliver it."
Later that evening, Kyla and Deyne sat across from each other at a quiet outpost mess table tucked behind Frostmere Rise Station. The room was dim, lit only by two hanging oil lanterns and the fading red-orange sky bleeding in through the slatted windows. Their trays sat mostly untouched.
Kyla broke the silence first. "She was so light. Della. When we helped her onto the stretcher… she didn't weigh anything. It was like lifting a memory."
Deyne didn't interrupt. He just listened, sipping once from his tin cup before answering.
"These calls," he said. "They never get easier. You don't want them to."
They sat in silence again.
Then he added, more softly, "When I started, I thought our job was about keeping order. Writing reports. Holding lines. But… this?"
He looked up at her.
"This is the line. How we treat the people who can't protect themselves. That's the only line that matters."
Kyla nodded slowly. "No kingdom survives if it doesn't start there."
The two of them sat back, letting the words settle.
Outside, a Royal Trooper walked the night beat. The lanternlight of Gatewatch flickered gently. Somewhere in a temporary holding annex, a name had been logged, and a future trial awaited.
And above it all, Arcadia's promise hung in the quiet—
Justice, not by throne, but by will.