Before Ryan could fully flatten the waterlogged tactical scroll against his sleeve, a low, rhythmic thud echoed across the cobblestone courtyard. A pair of drummers stationed near the timber gates struck their instruments in unison, producing a muffled, percussive roll that sounded less like a martial prelude and more like the opening chime of an uncomfortably high-level executive town hall meeting. The sudden acoustic cue cut through the ambient murmur of the garrison, causing the scattered merchants to freeze mid-stride. The austere magistrate, having abruptly abandoned his hurried retreat toward the inner bailey, spun back around with the practiced, immovable posture of a department head whose schedule had just been unexpectedly cleared for an emergency alignment session.
With a slow, deliberate wave of his lacquered fan, the magistrate signaled for the drummers to cease, fixing Ryan with a heavy, unblinking stare that brooked no argument. It was the exact expression Ryan had faced across a conference table whenever someone tried to pin a catastrophic venue overspend on the marketing team. Adjusting the strap of his canvas messenger bag over his pressed white collar and maintaining the mild, weary composure of a man who simply wanted to clear his inbox and catch the 7:42 back to the district, Ryan stepped forward. If they insisted on running an unvetted operational review in the middle of a feudal courtyard without a proper agenda, he would at least ensure his red-pen annotations were logged for the record.