The Gates Were Open

Keep the watchfires burning. A city hears a rumor, then mistakes it for the wind. I do not bring the army; I enter dressed as need. A merchant with a question, a beggar with a creed. I pay the hungry clerk, I teach the guard to doubt, then leave one unlocked doorway for every secret out. No banner on the ridgeline, no trumpet in the sand - just neighbors naming neighbors, and keys placed in my hand. The gates were open long before the ram, the walls were hollow long before the brand. One whisper in the market, one shadow in the hall - by the time the Bull is marching, there is no city left to fall. I choose one town to scream so ten will kneel in sleep. I draw the lots at noon and let the living keep the sight of every scaffold, the lesson of the square: fear travels faster than soldiers and arrives before we're there. A captain trusts his second. A father bars his son. The lamps stay lit till morning, but no one sees the sun. The gates were open long before the ram, the walls were hollow long before the brand. One whisper in the market, one shadow in the hall - by the time the Bull is marching, there is no city left to fall. The fox needs no siege engine when panic turns the key. I make the weak accuse the strong and call the fracture peace. I leave the dead arranged like words the desert cannot hide: “Resist, and be remembered. Submit, and stand aside.” The gates were open long before the ram, your oath was ash before you saw the brand. No battle at the threshold, no final trumpet call - when the Legion reaches daylight, there is no city left to fall. Keep the watchfires burning. I have already passed.