The city woke bruised.
Not broken—bruised.
Rhen felt it in the way people moved the morning after the breach. Quieter. More deliberate. Confidence hadn't vanished, but it had learned caution, the kind that settles into the shoulders and makes every decision feel heavier than the last.
The basin held steady.
The channels held.
The logs overflowed with annotations, revisions, and the names of blind spots that had never been named before.
It was working.
And it still wasn't enough.
Nymera sat at the edge of the bowl, cloak wrapped tightly around her, eyes half-lidded as she listened to the currents. The tidefire barely glimmered now—a pilot light instead of a flame.
Rhen knelt beside her. "You should rest."
She smiled faintly. "You first."
He didn't argue. He watched her instead, feeling the ache of the bond where strain had replaced warmth.
Skelda approached, expression tight. "We have a problem."
Rhen straightened. "Another one?"
"Yes," she said flatly. "And this one has a face."
She gestured toward the lower tiers.
A young woman stood there—human, wrapped in a travel cloak torn at the hem, eyes bright with fear and determination. Beside her hovered two wardens, uneasy.
"She crossed three regions to get here," Skelda continued. "Claims she was sent."
Nymera opened her eyes fully. "By who?"
The woman swallowed. "By the Deep Ones."
Silence fell like ice cracking too cleanly.
Rhen felt the weight surge—violent this time, not in demand, but in warning. "Sent how?"
The woman took a shaky breath. "They… spoke. Not in my head. In the water. They said you'd listen."
Nymera rose slowly, every movement careful. "What do they want?"
The woman met her gaze. "They want you."
Not as interpreter.
Not as witness.
As anchor.
Rhen's blood went cold.
Nymera didn't flinch. "Explain."
"They say the Bridge is too… distributed," the woman continued. "Too many variables. Too slow. They want a fixed point. One voice they can align to."
Rhen stepped forward sharply. "No."
Nymera raised a hand, stopping him. "What happens if we refuse?" she asked.
The woman hesitated. "They'll continue adapting. Quietly. They said… this was the last polite ask."
The city erupted.
Shouts. Denials. Fear uncoiling into anger.
Skelda barked for silence. "Enough!"
Rhen turned on Nymera, voice low and fierce. "This is exactly what we warned about. They're trying to isolate you."
Nymera nodded slowly. "Yes."
"And you're considering it."
She didn't deny it.
Rhen's chest tightened painfully. "Ny—"
She took his hands, grounding him through the bond. "Listen to me. They're not asking because they're strong. They're asking because they failed."
He shook his head. "Or because they learned how to ask better."
"Both can be true," she said softly.
Skelda cut in. "If you become a fixed point, you become a target. For them. For the Councils. For everyone who wants control."
Nymera's eyes were steady. "I know."
Rhen felt something fracture—not the bond, but the illusion that there would always be a choice that spared everyone.
"What are you really choosing between?" he asked quietly.
Nymera answered without hesitation. "Between a system that keeps reacting… and a sacrifice that might stop the spiral."
Rhen's voice broke. "You already sacrificed."
She smiled sadly. "Apparently not enough."
The weight pressed harder—insistent now, narrowing the futures.
If Nymera accepted, the Deep Ones would stabilize faster—but the city would lose its shared stewardship, its proof that power could be corrected.
If she refused, the Deep Ones would continue probing blind spots—smarter, quieter—until the cost landed somewhere unprepared.
Rhen saw it all.
And for the first time since the wolf went silent, he felt something rise where it once had.
Not instinct.
Conviction.
"No," he said clearly.
The city stilled.
Nymera searched his face. "Rhen—"
"You won't be the anchor," he continued. "Because anchors don't move. And you're not meant to stop the world alone."
He turned to the gathered city. "If they want a fixed point—give them one."
Nymera's eyes widened. "Rhen—no."
He met her gaze, the bond flaring painfully bright. "I'm already halfway there. The judgment. The weight. The way they stopped pressing on you and started testing systems."
Skelda stared. "You're offering yourself."
"I'm offering the role," Rhen corrected. "Bound by rules. Logged. Replaceable."
Nymera's breath hitched. "Replaceable?"
"Yes," he said firmly. "Because the moment I can't be replaced, we've failed."
The city murmured—fear, awe, protest.
Nymera shook her head, tears finally breaking free. "I won't let you do this alone."
He cupped her face gently. "You won't. You'll watch me like a hawk. You'll correct me publicly. You'll pull me back if I drift."
She laughed through tears. "You're impossible."
He smiled softly. "You taught me."
Skelda closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them, her voice was steady. "If this happens, it happens by vote. With limits so tight they hurt."
Rhen nodded. "Good."
Nymera turned to the woman from the water. "Tell them this," she said. "We will not give you a queen. We will give you a process."
Rhen stepped forward. "And I will stand as its first steward—temporarily."
The woman hesitated, then nodded slowly. "They said… they'd respect that."
The city exhaled—terrified, resolute.
Nymera gripped Rhen's hands. "You're choosing the system over yourself."
He leaned his forehead against hers. "I'm choosing us."
Above them, the moon shifted—not pulling.
Watching.
And far beneath the fjords, hunger paused—not satisfied, not angry.
Evaluating.