In the bustling arteries and quiet byways of Edenlon, the city’s constabulary moves with a determined stride, their uniforms crisp, their aether-powered batons gleaming faintly. They are the visible hand of order, tasked with upholding the intricate laws that govern this metropolis of clockwork and steam. From the grand boulevards where polished carriages glide, to the industrious lower districts where the air hums with the rhythm of progress, their presence is meant to reassure, to deter, and to enforce the peace so hard-won after the Long War.
Yet, as one ventures deeper into the labyrinthine alleys and shadowed enclaves, the authority of Edenlon’s finest becomes less absolute, more a matter of negotiation than dominion. In the territories carved out by the city’s various gangs, the bright glow of streetlights often gives way to flickering gas lamps, and the rule of law is frequently superseded by the brutal, self-imposed codes of the street. Here, patrols are fewer, their movements more cautious, and their presence sometimes met with a silent, simmering defiance rather than immediate compliance.
It is in these contested zones that the limits of Edenlon’s progress become starkly apparent. The constables, though brave and dedicated, find their reach curtailed, their efforts to impose order a constant, challenging skirmish against the entrenched power of those who thrive in the city’s underbelly. They are the guardians of a fragile peace, ever vigilant, yet acutely aware of the shadows that cling to the very heart of their magnificent city.