The backlash did not roar.
It whispered.
Rhen noticed it in the way conversations paused when Nymera entered a room. In the way some wardens volunteered for night shifts they hadn't taken in weeks. In the careful politeness that replaced the city's usual blunt warmth.
Trust hadn't broken.
It had thinned.
Nymera felt it immediately, though she pretended not to. She moved through the city with the same calm grace, listening more than speaking, recording everything as promised. But the bond carried the undercurrent—hurt tempered into resolve.
"They're afraid," she said quietly to Rhen as they crossed the bridge at dusk. "Not of me. Of what it means if I'm right."
Rhen's jaw tightened. "And if they're wrong."
They reached the bowl to find a gathering already forming. Not a protest—worse. A forum.
Skelda stood at the rim, arms crossed, expression carved from patience. "You should hear this," she said.
A Moonbound captain stepped forward, voice controlled. "We appreciate the restraint. We appreciate the transparency. But empathy toward an existential threat is not stewardship—it's exposure."
Murmurs followed—measured, fearful.
A human delegate added, "If the Deep Ones learn from us, they'll learn how to bypass us."
Nymera stepped forward, hands open. "They're already learning," she said. "The question is what."
The captain shook his head. "You met them without the city's voice. That sets a precedent."
Rhen felt the weight surge—heavy, insistent. He stepped in before Nymera could answer.
"She didn't go alone," he said evenly. "She went witnessed. Logged. Limited. By our vote."
The captain met his gaze. "And if next time there's no vote?"
Nymera answered softly, "Then there's no meeting."
Silence settled—tight, unresolved.
Skelda cleared her throat. "State the motion."
The captain swallowed. "Proposal: suspend direct engagement with the Deep Ones pending further review."
A clean cut.
Rhen felt the city's pulse spike. He also felt the Deep Ones—distant, quiet, waiting. Not pressing. Watching the human response more than the channels.
Nymera closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, there was no anger—only clarity.
"I won't argue fear," she said. "I'll answer risk."
She gestured to the logs. "Every engagement reduced pressure. No breaches. No escalation. The cost was fatigue—ours, not the city's."
A murmur—some relief, some doubt.
"And if they lie?" the human delegate pressed.
Nymera nodded. "Then we stop. Publicly. Immediately."
Rhen added, "And we don't replace dialogue with silence. Silence is how we lost cities."
The debate stretched—voices rising, cooling, rising again. Finally, Skelda called the vote.
The motion failed.
Narrowly.
The city exhaled—uneven, fragile.
That night, Rhen couldn't sleep.
He stood on the bridge, staring into water that reflected nothing, feeling the edge he'd been circling since Nymera stepped into the current alone.
Trust was elastic.
But everything had a breaking point.
Nymera joined him, wrapping her cloak tighter. "You're thinking too loud."
He snorted softly. "Occupational hazard."
She leaned against the rail. "Say it."
He did. "What if they're right? What if empathy teaches the Deep Ones to wear our patience like a mask?"
Nymera didn't answer immediately. She listened—to the city, to the water, to the bond.
"Then we stop," she said at last. "And we do it before the mask finishes forming."
He frowned. "You're betting on early detection."
"I'm betting on visibility," she corrected. "Masks don't survive daylight."
A ripple moved far below—small, contained.
"They're still there," Rhen said.
"Yes," Nymera replied. "And they're quieter."
Rhen felt it too. Not absence. Attention turned inward.
"They're practicing," he said.
Nymera nodded. "Restraint is a muscle. It hurts before it holds."
The test came before dawn.
A probe surfaced at the basin's edge—gentler than any before. It did not push. It did not ask for access.
It asked for feedback.
Rhen stiffened. "That's… unsettling."
Nymera stepped forward, palms open. "State your observation."
The current shaped slowly.
We delayed, it conveyed. Pressure accumulated elsewhere. A smaller breach occurred.
Nymera's breath caught. "Where?"
Images formed—an uninhabited ice shelf fracturing, far from routes and towns.
Rhen's mind raced. "They're reporting collateral."
"Yes," Nymera said softly. "And asking how to improve."
The city watched—silent, stunned.
Skelda muttered, "I don't like this."
"Neither do I," Rhen said. "But I like ignorance less."
Nymera met his eyes. "We answer carefully."
She turned back to the current. "Delay without redistribution shifts harm. You must reroute, not wait."
The current wavered.
Understood, it replied. Request models.
Nymera paused—then looked to the city. "We share non-sensitive models. Observed. Logged."
Skelda grimaced. "You're teaching them logistics."
"No," Nymera said. "I'm teaching them constraints."
The city voted—quickly this time.
Yes.
The exchange ended without spectacle.
The basin stilled.
Later, as the sun crept pale over ice and stone, Rhen felt the weight ease—not because danger had passed, but because it had been named.
"You chose trust again," he said to Nymera.
She smiled tiredly. "I chose conditional trust."
He took her hand. "How far does it stretch?"
She squeezed back. "As far as the logs."
Below them, the water flowed—patient, learning.
And in the city, fear didn't vanish.
But it learned to speak.