Morning in the city began the same way every day.
Not with noise, and not with movement—with clarity. People knew what they were to do before they stepped outside their doors. Some went to the warehouses, some to the gates, some to the workshops. Not because they wished to, but because this was how things were arranged.
In a stone hall without ornament gathered those whose work was neither production nor care, but the formalization of decisions. Here, they did not debate what was right. Here, they recorded what would be done.
The Steward stood at the table with the documents. He did not sit in judgment or emphasize his position. He stood, leaning on the surface, like a man accustomed to trusting structure rather than words.
“Let us begin,” he said.
That was enough.
***
The matter was simple.
A dispute between two suppliers. One had delayed the goods; the other had received less than expected. No one denied the facts. The question was not what had happened, but how to record it so that the system would not fail further.
One spoke of the weather.
The other—of the road.
Both were right.
The Steward listened in silence. He did not interrupt and did not ask for what was unnecessary. He knew which words carried information, and which carried only justification.
“The goods will be accepted with delay,” he said at last. “Responsibility is shared. Compensation—from the reserve.”
One of the suppliers tried to add something.
“The decision has been made,” the Steward said.
His voice did not rise.
But the conversation ended.
The decision was not ideal.
But it allowed movement to continue.
***
After a directive, there was no discussion.
People left and began to act. Some with dissatisfaction, some with relief—but all equally quickly. Agreement was not required here. Execution was.
It did not look cruel.
It looked efficient.
“That will be simpler,” one of the scribes said, rolling up the documents.
“Not necessarily better,” another replied.
“But faster.”
The phrase required no defense.
It had long since become part of practice.
***
By midday, the changes were visible.
Deliveries evened out. Lines shortened. Disputes disappeared—not because the causes vanished, but because disputing became pointless. Decisions already existed.
The Steward walked across the square. He was not accompanied by guards. Space itself cleared around him—not from fear, but from habit.
A man responsible for practical decisions approached him. They exchanged a few words—briefly, without clarification.
“This will speed the process,” one said.
“It will be recorded,” the Steward replied.
That was sufficient.
Knowledge did not replace authority.
Authority did not argue with knowledge.
They formalized one another.
***
Later, in the shadow of the buildings, the Steward stopped beside a man for whom custom mattered above all.
“People are dissatisfied,” the man said.
“People are always dissatisfied,” the Steward replied.
“Before, they could hope.”
“And now they still can. For order.”
The man fell silent.
“Not everything must be decided at once.”
“Everything that is not decided becomes a problem,” the Steward replied.
This was not an argument.
It was a divergence of worlds.
***
By evening, the city functioned more evenly than it had in the morning.
Steps grew steadier. Voices quieter. People stopped looking back. Order had done its work. It had not made everyone content—it had made everyone predictable.
Order did not ask whether it was right.
It recorded decisions and moved on.
If it was mistaken—
that became visible later,
when the mistake had already been formalized,
entered into documents,
and distributed among those responsible.
The city stood.
Worked.
Obeyed.