The city did not rush the decision.
That alone told Rhen everything.
No chants.
No cheers.
No desperate scramble to cling to hope like a rope fraying at both ends.
Instead, the bowl filled slowly—people arriving in ones and twos, faces set with the weight of knowing this vote would change not just policy, but direction. The air hummed, not with magic, but with attention sharpened into resolve.
Nymera stood beside Rhen, fingers laced through his. The bond between them was taut—not strained, but braced, like a bridge reinforced before a storm.
Skelda struck the stone once.
"State the motion."
A scribe stepped forward, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
Motion:
To appoint Rhen of the Bridge as Interim Fixed Steward,
subject to binding limits, public oversight, and guaranteed succession,
for the purpose of engaging the Deep Ones without isolating Nymera of the Tides.
Silence followed.
Then Skelda said, "Terms."
The scribe read them aloud—each one a blade with two edges.
Time-Bound Authority:
Rhen's stewardship would expire after three full cycles unless renewed by public vote.
Hard Constraints:
Rhen could not act alone. All decisions required cross-tier confirmation—human, wolf, merfolk.
Immediate Recall:
Any two stewards, from different peoples, could suspend him pending review.
No Hereditary Claim:
The role could not attach to blood, bond, or prophecy.
Full Visibility:
Every interaction with the Deep Ones would be logged, witnessed, and archived.
When the final term was read, the city exhaled—slow, collective.
Nymera felt it like a hand pressed to her back, steadying her even as fear coiled tight in her chest.
Skelda looked to Rhen. "You accept these limits?"
Rhen didn't hesitate. "Yes."
"And the cost?" she pressed.
He met her gaze. "If I'm wrong, I'll be stopped."
Nymera's throat tightened.
Skelda nodded once. "Then we vote."
The vote was spoken.
Names were said aloud. Not tallied in secret. Each voice carried its history with it—loss, hope, anger, trust.
"Yes."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
No one flinched when dissent spoke. No one silenced it.
When the final count was reached, Skelda raised her head.
"The motion passes."
Not overwhelmingly.
But enough.
The city did not cheer.
It stood.
Nymera closed her eyes as the weight shifted—not onto Rhen, but around him, locking into place like a framework finally completed. She felt the bond adjust, not loosening, not tightening—redefining.
Rhen inhaled slowly.
The judgment inside him sharpened—not colder, not crueler.
Clearer.
The water answered.
Not immediately.
Then—deliberately.
The basin's surface smoothed until it reflected the sky with uncomfortable precision. The Deep Ones' presence gathered—not looming, not pressing.
Attentive.
Terms acknowledged, the current conveyed.
Anchor provisional.
Rhen stepped forward, heart pounding. "I am not permanent."
The water did not disagree.
Nymera stood at his shoulder, voice firm. "And I remain sovereign. You will not bypass me."
A pause.
Accepted.
The city shuddered—not in fear, but in awe.
Skelda muttered, "I hate when it understands us."
Rhen allowed himself one tight smile. "Me too."
Later, when the crowd thinned and dusk softened the ice into blue shadow, Nymera finally broke.
She gripped Rhen's coat with both hands, pressing her forehead to his chest. "You scared me."
He wrapped his arms around her instantly. "Good."
She pulled back, glaring. "That's not comforting."
"It's honest," he said gently. "If this didn't scare us, we'd already be lost."
Her eyes shone. "I hate watching."
He brushed his thumb under her eye. "Then don't disappear. Watch me."
She laughed shakily. "You're terrible at reassurance."
"Still learning," he admitted.
That night, the city slept lighter than it had in weeks.
And far beneath the fjords, hunger adjusted—not frustrated.
Engaged.
The Deep Ones had what they wanted—not control, not dominance—
—but a system willing to be tested.
And for the first time, Rhen understood what it truly meant to be the Bridge:
Not to hold the world still—
—but to let it move without tearing itself apart.