The convoy returned at dawn with fewer voices than it left with.
Rhen felt it before the horns sounded—a thinning in the city's rhythm, a subtle slack where shared channels should have carried warmth. The wards still held. The canals still flowed. But something essential had been bruised.
Nymera was already moving when the first horn cut the air—short, restrained. Not victory. Not alarm.
Return.
They reached the outer bridge together. Frost clung to armor and cloaks; faces were drawn, eyes bright with the brittle sheen of adrenaline spent too fast. The convoy's leader—a Moonbound woman with a split ear and blood still darkening her sleeve—knelt at the bowl without being asked.
"We drove the probe back," she said. "No casualties in the town."
A breath went through the crowd.
"Then what's wrong?" Skelda asked.
The woman swallowed. "On the return… we chased. Too far. The water folded on us. Two didn't make it back."
Names followed. Quietly. Respectfully. The city listened as if each syllable were a bell rung once and never again.
Rhen felt the weight settle—heavier than before, because this time it wore his fingerprints. He had agreed to teeth. Teeth had bitten back.
Nymera's hand tightened in his. Through the bond, he felt her grief—steady, disciplined, threaded with resolve not to let sorrow harden into reflex.
Skelda turned to Rhen. "You said time-limited. You said reviewed."
Rhen nodded. "I did."
The trader from the southern routes stepped forward, eyes rimmed red. "And it worked. My sister's town stands."
"Yes," Rhen said. "Today."
The trader flinched—not offended, but seen.
"We end the escalation," Rhen continued, voice even. "Now."
Murmurs rose—some relief, some anger.
The Moonbound woman lifted her chin. "We can do better next time."
Rhen met her gaze. "That's how 'next time' becomes policy."
Silence followed, tight and contested.
Nymera stepped forward. "We didn't fail because we acted," she said. "We failed because we chased—because fear convinced us restraint was optional once teeth were bared."
She looked at the convoy. "You held when it mattered. Thank you. But this ends."
Skelda exhaled through her nose. "Agreed."
A vote was taken—open, named, recorded. The opt-in escalation closed as it had opened: publicly.
Rhen felt the weight ease—not lift. Align.
The revision came at noon.
Rhen stood at the bowl and changed the rules he had written with his own hands.
"No pursuit beyond prepared channels," he said. "No escalation without a second steward present. And every action logged where everyone can see it."
A human warden frowned. "That will slow response."
Rhen nodded. "Good."
Nymera added, "Speed without consent is how we got here."
The city hummed—approving, wary.
Far below, something stirred.
Nymera stiffened. "They're closer."
Rhen closed his eyes and reached—not for force, but for pattern. The Deep Ones' presence pressed at the edges of the canals, probing the newly defined boundaries.
"They learned the difference between defense and chase," he said. "Now they'll test patience."
A shadow thickened at the canal bend—larger than before, more confident. It did not strike. It waited.
Nymera stepped to the edge, voice calm. "State your ask."
The shadow reshaped, a contour like a held breath.
Access, it offered—structure settling into her mind. Windows.
Nymera frowned. "To what?"
Pressure, it replied. Release without rupture.
Rhen felt it too—the logic of it. The Deep Ones were not asking to feed. They were asking to vent.
"Where?" Rhen asked.
The city answered before the shadow could—channels brightening toward a reinforced basin designed for overflow, a place built precisely for what they'd feared to name.
Nymera's eyes widened. "We built that for storms."
Rhen nodded slowly. "Storms and consequences."
He looked to the city. "This would be monitored. Time-limited. Consent required."
Skelda's jaw tightened. "You're considering giving them a valve."
"I'm considering preventing a breach," Rhen said.
The trader hesitated, then spoke quietly. "If it keeps towns standing… I'll accept the risk."
Others followed—uneven, careful assent.
Nymera met Rhen's gaze. Through the bond, he felt her question—and her trust.
"Limited access," she said to the shadow. "Logged. Observed. Withdrawn if misused."
The shadow thinned, reshaped—accepted.
Pressure eased.
The canal breathed.
The city held.
That night, Rhen sat alone on the bridge longer than usual, watching black water reflect nothing at all. He replayed the names. The vote. The revision. Leadership felt less like weight now and more like weather—patterns you learned by paying attention.
Nymera joined him, resting her head against his shoulder. "You changed the rules."
"I had to," he said. "They changed us."
She smiled faintly. "That's what living systems do."
He turned to her. "Did we just make a mistake?"
She considered. "Probably."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Comforting."
She squeezed his hand. "Mistakes you can see are better than lies you can't."
Below them, the overflow basin filled—controlled, measured—then drained, leaving the stone unbroken.
Far beneath the fjords, hunger adjusted again—not angry this time.
Curious.