The summons did not arrive with horns or banners.
It came as silence.
Rhen felt it in the city first—a subtle dampening, like a hand placed over a ringing bell. Conversations softened. Footsteps slowed. Even the water in the canals settled into glassy stillness. The city was listening.
Then the weight arrived.
It pressed behind his eyes, at the base of his skull, not painful but undeniable. A presence that did not announce itself as threat or ally—only as authority.
Nymera felt it too. The bond stirred, warm and alert.
"They've decided to test you," she said quietly.
Rhen frowned. "Me?"
She nodded. "Not the Bridge. Not us together. You."
Before he could answer, Skelda appeared at the edge of the bowl, her expression grim. "The Councils didn't leave," she said. "They circled. Watched. And now they're asking for judgment."
Rhen barked a short laugh. "That's rich."
"They want a demonstration," Skelda continued. "Not of power. Of restraint."
Nymera's jaw tightened. "What kind?"
Skelda met Rhen's eyes. "They've brought a prisoner."
The man was Moonbound.
Rhen knew it the moment he saw him—silver-threaded scars at the temples, ritual marks along the spine where lunar bindings had once been carved in. He knelt at the center of the bowl, wrists bound with dull iron, eyes fixed on the stone.
Skelda spoke low. "His name is Iver. Vanguard captain. He ordered the strike that killed the civilians at the southern inlet two nights ago."
A murmur rippled through the gathered city—anger, grief, recognition.
Nymera's breath hitched. Rhen felt it through the bond—the sharp ache of shared loss.
Iver lifted his head at last, eyes hollow. "I followed orders."
Rhen's hands curled into fists.
The weight behind his eyes grew heavier, expectant.
Vael and Morcant stood at the bowl's rim, flanked by their guards but conspicuously still. This was not a trial by their laws. It was a test of his.
Morcant raised his staff. "The Bridge has declared itself steward," he said. "Then let the steward judge. By ancient accord, judgment binds all present."
Nymera stiffened. "You're shifting responsibility."
"Yes," Vael said coolly. "That is leadership."
Rhen stepped forward before Nymera could respond.
"I won't be your executioner," he said evenly.
Morcant's eyes narrowed. "And if mercy invites more blood?"
The city held its breath.
The weight pressed harder—no longer silent. It spoke.
Not in words.
In consequence.
Rhen saw it then—not visions, not memories—but branching outcomes, quiet and vast. If he killed Iver, the city would fracture along familiar lines. Fear would calcify into obedience. The Deep Ones would taste imbalance sharpened by vengeance.
If he freed him, grief would curdle into rage. Trust would die young.
There was a third path—but it was heavy.
Rhen met Iver's gaze. "Do you regret it?"
Iver's jaw trembled. "I regret that I believed obedience was virtue."
The weight shifted—approving, but not satisfied.
Rhen turned to the city. "We don't erase harm by pretending it didn't happen. And we don't stop it by repeating it."
He looked back to Iver. "You will not die today."
Gasps. Anger. Relief.
"But you will carry what you did," Rhen continued. "Not in chains. In service."
Morcant scoffed. "Indenture is mercy dressed as punishment."
Rhen shook his head. "No. This is stewardship."
He gestured to the canals, the bridges, the wards humming quietly beneath the stone. "You will help rebuild what was broken. You will stand watch where the dead can't. You will learn restraint from those who live with its cost every day."
Iver swallowed hard. "And if I refuse?"
Rhen's voice was calm. "Then you leave this city and never return. Unprotected. Unclaimed. Alone."
The weight lifted—slightly. The choice had been made.
Nymera stepped forward, her voice steady. "This city is not a place to hide from consequences. It's a place to live with them."
Silence stretched—then broke as Skelda nodded once.
"Accepted," she said. "By Northwake."
One by one, voices followed—merfolk, humans, wolves. Reluctant. Resolute.
Vael's eyes were sharp. "You set a dangerous precedent."
Rhen met his gaze. "So did you."
The Councils withdrew without ceremony.
The city exhaled.
That night, the weight did not leave Rhen.
It followed him to the bridge where black water reflected no stars. He leaned on the stone, exhaustion settling deep in his bones.
"I felt it," Nymera said softly, joining him. "The way you saw the outcomes."
He nodded. "It didn't ask what I wanted. It asked what I would hold."
She studied him—really studied him. "Does that frighten you?"
"Yes," he said honestly. "And no."
She smiled faintly. "That's new."
Rhen exhaled. "The wolf gave me instinct. The Bridge gives me judgment. I don't know if I'm ready for that."
Nymera took his hand, pressing it over her heart. "You don't have to be ready. You just have to be willing."
The bond warmed—not brighter, not louder.
Steadier.
Below them, the canals shifted as workers moved—repairing, reinforcing, choosing continuity over spectacle.
Far away, hunger watched.
And learned.