The summons came for Nymera at low tide.
Rhen felt it as an absence before he understood it as a call—a sudden quiet in the bond where her presence usually flowed like breath. Not severed. Not harmed.
Withdrawn.
He turned sharply on the bridge, heart spiking. "Ny?"
She stood at the canal's edge, utterly still, eyes unfocused, tidefire dimmed to a thin, steady line along her wrists. The water before her parted—not violently, but with deliberate care—revealing a narrow causeway of black stone slick with brine.
Nymera inhaled. "They're asking for me."
Rhen was beside her in an instant, hand closing around hers. "No. Whatever this is, we answer together."
She shook her head gently. "Not this time."
The words hit harder than any blade.
Before he could argue, Skelda approached, face pale. "The merfolk wardens felt it too," she said. "A parley beneath the fjord. The Deep Ones want the Voice—without the Bridge."
Rhen snarled. "That's a trap."
"Yes," Nymera agreed calmly. "And it's also a question."
She turned to him, cupping his cheek. The bond warmed—familiar, grounding—but she held something back, carefully folded away. "They're testing whether I can stand without you carrying the weight for me."
Rhen swallowed. "You don't have to prove anything."
"I do," she said softly. "To them. To the sea. To myself."
The city hummed uneasily, wards shifting as if to protest. Rhen felt the weight surge, instinct urging him to clamp down, to forbid.
He didn't.
He breathed.
He let go.
"Set conditions," he said at last. "I'll hold the city. You don't go unguarded."
Nymera smiled—relieved, proud. "Thank you."
Skelda gestured sharply. "Two wardens. Sight-lines open. If the water turns—"
"It won't," Nymera said. "Not yet."
She stepped onto the causeway.
The bond thinned—not broken, but stretched. Rhen felt it like a cold draft through his ribs as the water closed behind her, swallowing the path.
The chamber beneath the fjord was older than cities.
Ice arched overhead in smooth, impossible curves. Water flowed along the walls, slow and luminous, carrying whispers that pressed against Nymera's ears without becoming sound. At the chamber's center hovered three silhouettes—taller than the probes she'd seen, smaller than the hunger that had nearly broken the ice.
Observers.
They did not speak.
They presented.
A pressure settled around Nymera, isolating her from the Bridge's shared strength. The tidefire steadied, then adapted, thinning into a filament precise enough to cut or stitch.
"You asked for me," Nymera said, voice calm. "Here I am."
The pressure shifted.
Images surfaced—currents redirected without consent, cities drowned to preserve balance, voices silenced because they complicated equations. The Deep Ones did not defend these acts.
They measured them.
Nymera felt the ask then—not a demand for submission, but a calculation.
Can the Voice choose restraint without amplification?
She answered by doing something no one expected.
She listened—and refused to sing.
The tidefire dimmed further. Nymera knelt, palms open, offering nothing but presence. The chamber wavered, confused.
"I won't be your lever," she said evenly. "And I won't be your shield. If you want restraint, you will practice it."
The observers pulsed—irritation, curiosity, recalibration.
They pressed again, testing her limits. Pain flared behind her eyes, sharp but contained. She held—not by force, but by boundary.
"I am not endless," Nymera said. "And neither are you."
The pressure eased—incrementally. A concession.
One observer drifted closer, its silhouette refining, edges smoothing as if learning a new shape.
Terms, it offered—not in words, but in structure.
Nymera felt them settle into place: limited access, shared channels, response windows. Consent codified.
"I'll bring this to the city," she said. "And to Rhen."
The observers receded, not satisfied—but engaged.
Above, the city strained.
Rhen stood at the bowl, jaw set, hands open as he directed the shared channels. Without Nymera, the work was heavier—but it held. People stepped in where the bond would have carried before. The city answered itself.
A tremor rippled through the wards—then steadied.
Skelda exhaled. "She's holding."
Rhen didn't relax until the canal split again and Nymera emerged, soaked and pale but upright.
He crossed the distance in three strides, pulling her into his arms as the bond surged back into full warmth. She laughed weakly against his chest.
"I told you," she said. "Not yet."
He pressed his forehead to hers. "Never do that again."
She smiled. "I will. Just… not alone."
That night, Nymera stood before the city and spoke—not with the Voice, but with clarity.
"They will negotiate," she said. "They will test. And they will respect boundaries—because we showed them what they are."
The city answered with quiet resolve.
Rhen felt the weight adjust—not lighter, not heavier.
Truer.
Above them, the moon watched without pulling.
And beneath the fjords, hunger learned a new rule:
Some tides stand alone—
and still hold.