The partnership arrived wrapped in courtesy.
Rhen recognized the danger immediately—not in the words, but in the tone. The Council's emissary stood at the bowl with hands open and eyes earnest, speaking of collaboration, stability, shared futures. The offer was precise, generous, and edged like glass.
"Pilot stewardship," the emissary said. "Limited scope. Shared oversight. A chance to prove this model scales."
Nymera listened without interruption. The city hummed—curious, wary.
"What's the scope?" Rhen asked.
"Three corridors," the emissary replied smoothly. "High traffic. High risk. High visibility."
Skelda muttered, "High leverage."
Nymera lifted a hand, stalling the murmurs. "And the terms?"
"Joint facilitation," the emissary said. "Council advisors embedded alongside your stewards. Decisions logged. Disputes arbitrated by—"
"—you," Rhen finished.
The emissary smiled. "By process."
Nymera's eyes sharpened. "Which process?"
A pause. The smallest one.
Rhen felt the weight hover—alert.
Nymera nodded once. "We'll consider it. Publicly."
The city debated for six hours.
Maps spread. Risks named. Safeguards argued until words went thin. Rhen watched the fault lines form—not between people, but between fears. Fear of isolation. Fear of capture. Fear of stagnation.
Nymera spoke last.
"We accept," she said, and the room stilled, "with conditions."
She laid them out cleanly:
No embedded advisors with veto authority.
All arbitration panels selected by lot, mixed-region, time-limited.
Immediate withdrawal if any term is breached—no grace period.
Independent observers chosen by the city, not the Council.
Rhen added, "And one more: outcomes over optics. If success is staged, we walk."
Silence.
Then nods—slow, deliberate.
The vote passed.
The pilot began at dawn.
Corridor One held. Corridor Two adapted. Corridor Three—paused.
Pressure built where traffic converged. Not a surge—friction. The Deep Ones felt it and leaned—not pushing, just enough to test seams.
Nymera stood with the facilitation team, voice calm, hands open. "Slow the intake. Redirect to secondary channels."
The Council advisor hesitated. "Our models show—"
"—models don't feel water," Nymera said gently. "Do it."
The redirect worked. Pressure eased.
The advisor logged the change—then flagged it for review.
Rhen saw the move for what it was: documentation turned cudgel.
He stepped in. "Flag it. Also flag that it prevented escalation."
The advisor smiled thinly. "Of course."
The city watched.
At dusk, the breach came—not in the corridor, but in the rules.
A Council communiqué announced a "clarification," retroactively expanding advisory discretion during emergencies.
Nymera didn't raise her voice.
She raised the ledger.
"Term three," she said into the public channel. "Immediate withdrawal upon breach."
The emissary protested. "This is interpretation."
Rhen replied, steady. "Interpretation is what you do before signatures."
The city hummed—approving, firm.
Nymera closed the channel. "We're out."
The withdrawal was clean. Logged. Timed. Witnessed.
Corridors returned to city stewardship within the hour.
The Deep Ones reacted—not with pressure, but with silence.
Nymera felt it as a sudden absence of inquiry, like a listener stepping back from a door.
"They're recalculating," she said.
Rhen nodded. "They learned something."
"What?" Skelda asked.
"That boundaries enforced without drama hold," Rhen said. "And that we mean it."
That night, Nymera stood alone at the basin longer than usual. Rhen joined her, quiet.
"You chose clarity over mercy," he said softly.
She nodded. "Mercy without clarity teaches the wrong lesson."
He squeezed her hand. "You taught it anyway."
Below them, the basin drained to its mark—precise, unbroken.
Far beneath the fjords, hunger shifted—less curious now.
Strategic.