The cost of waiting arrived with a face.
A child.
Rhen learned her name from a breathless runner who nearly collapsed at the bridge—Asha, six winters old, trapped with her father on a skerry where ice met open water too thin for passage and too thick for boats. The tide had turned early. The channels would correct—eventually.
Eventually would be too late.
Rhen felt the judgment inside him flare, hot and sharp. He saw the faster path instantly—one clean override, a temporary optimization that would funnel pressure away, lift the skerry just enough for rescue.
He also saw the ledger.
One exception would become two.
Two would become precedent.
Precedent would become habit.
Nymera stood beside him, face gone still. She felt the same branching futures—and the one that ended with a small body pulled from freezing water.
"Say the word," Skelda said tightly. "We can break protocol."
The city gathered—not shouting, not pleading. Watching.
Rhen's hands shook. "What's the time window?"
"Seven minutes," the runner gasped. "Maybe less."
Nymera closed her eyes. When she opened them, there was no accusation in her gaze—only pain. "Rhen," she said softly, "this is what they meant."
The water answered, almost kindly.
We can help, it conveyed. One adjustment. Minimal impact. Efficient.
Rhen's breath hitched. The offer felt reasonable. Humane.
Dangerously so.
He looked at Nymera. "If I say yes—"
"—you teach them that pressure works," she finished. "That a life buys leverage."
He swallowed hard. "And if I say no?"
She didn't soften it. "Asha may die."
The city held its breath.
Rhen turned to the tiers. "Stewards—local authority?"
A wolf warden spoke up, voice breaking. "We can try a manual rescue. It's slower. Riskier."
"How long?"
"Ten minutes," the warden said. "If the ice doesn't shear."
Seven versus ten.
Rhen closed his eyes. The wolf was gone, but the memory of choosing remained.
"No override," he said hoarsely. "Authorize manual rescue. Now."
Nymera inhaled sharply but nodded. "Log it."
The city moved—fast, imperfect, human.
Rhen felt the Deep Ones' attention sharpen—not angry, not pleased.
Observed.
Minutes stretched like wire.
Five.
Six.
The channel correction finally rippled outward—too late to matter.
A cry went up from the far ridge—wardens hauling, ice cracking, water surging.
Then—movement.
Asha emerged wrapped in a coat too big for her, coughing, alive.
The city exhaled in a sound that was almost a sob.
Rhen sagged against the rail, knees weak. Nymera caught him this time.
"You chose the hardest path," she whispered.
"And almost paid for it," he said.
"But you didn't," she replied. "And neither did the system."
The water withdrew—quiet, unreadable.
Noted, it conveyed. Waiting has teeth.
Rhen stared at the basin, hands still shaking. "They'll push harder now."
Nymera nodded. "Yes. Because you proved waiting can work."
He looked at her, eyes raw. "I don't know how many times I can do that."
She took his face in her hands. "As many times as it takes—together."
Far beneath the fjords, hunger reconsidered its models.
Waiting had bled.
But it had not broken.