The demand arrived at dawn, written in careful language that pretended to be calm.
Rhen read it twice before the meaning settled like a stone in his chest.
Temporary removal of Nymera of the Tides from all advisory and symbolic roles pending independent review.
Temporary.
Independent.
Pending.
Words designed to sound reasonable while cutting deep.
Skelda stood beside him on the bridge, jaw clenched. "They're afraid she'll do it again."
Rhen nodded. "They're afraid she can."
Below them, the city stirred uneasily. People had not returned to routine after the surge; they hovered instead—waiting for permission to believe again. The basin remained dark, the channels functional but stripped of their quiet confidence.
Nymera watched from the infirmary window as the sun crept over the ice. She already knew.
"They'll vote on it," she said softly when Rhen entered. "Won't they?"
"Yes," he replied.
She nodded once. "They should."
Rhen flinched. "Don't say that like you deserve it."
She smiled faintly. "I don't deserve it. But the city deserves certainty."
He sat beside her, taking her hand. The bond stirred weakly—present, diminished, still real. "If this passes—"
"I step back," she finished. "Publicly. Cleanly."
His voice was rough. "And if it doesn't?"
"Then they'll fracture anyway," she said. "Because doubt doesn't vanish when it loses a vote."
Rhen closed his eyes. The judgment inside him offered no comfort this time—only clarity without mercy.
The assembly filled faster than usual.
Fear sharpened efficiency.
Skelda called the motion without ceremony. Voices rose—some trembling, some furious, some pleading for restraint.
"She saved lives!"
"She broke the system!"
"She's the reason we're still here!"
"She's the reason the Deep Ones will never trust us again!"
Nymera stood at the edge of the bowl, pale but upright, refusing the chair offered to her. She did not speak.
Rhen did.
"This isn't about blame," he said. "It's about risk."
Murmurs rippled.
"Nymera broke the rules," he continued. "And she did it knowing the cost. That matters."
A human fisher shouted, "So you punish her for compassion?"
Rhen met his gaze. "No. We protect the system from dependence on any single person."
Silence followed—heavy, necessary.
"If Nymera stays central," Rhen said, voice steady, "every future crisis becomes a question of whether she intervenes again. That's not stewardship. That's a gamble."
Nymera closed her eyes.
Skelda called the vote.
Names echoed across the bowl—yes, no, abstain—each one carving a line through the city's fragile unity.
When the count ended, Skelda swallowed.
"The motion passes."
Not by much.
Enough.
Nymera exhaled slowly, as if she had been holding her breath since the surge. She stepped forward before anyone could stop her.
"I accept the review," she said clearly. "I will step back from mediation, facilitation, and symbolic authority until it concludes."
A murmur rose—protest, sorrow, relief.
She raised her hand. "But hear this: stepping back does not mean disappearing. I will testify. I will answer questions. And I will accept whatever judgment follows."
She turned to Rhen then, meeting his eyes. "This is how trust heals."
Rhen felt something tear and stitch itself together at once.
The Councils responded within hours.
Commendations for "responsible self-regulation."
Offers of oversight "support."
Thin smiles wrapped in public approval.
Skelda scoffed when she read them aloud. "They smell blood."
"And safety," Rhen replied. "They'll try to take credit."
Nymera listened from her cot, expression unreadable. "Let them," she said quietly. "Credit doesn't hold pressure."
That night, Rhen walked the city alone.
He passed people who looked at him with new eyes—some grateful, some wary. Leadership had finally become visible in the hardest way: through loss that wasn't anyone's fault.
At the basin, the water stirred.
Not a surge.
A presence.
You removed the volatile variable, the current conveyed. Stability improves.
Rhen's jaw tightened. "At what cost?"
Reduced compassion, it replied neutrally. Increased predictability.
Rhen felt a cold anger bloom. "Compassion isn't a variable. It's a value."
A pause.
Values conflict with optimization.
"Then optimization will lose," Rhen said.
The water did not answer.
Rhen returned to Nymera just before dawn.
She was awake, staring at the ceiling again.
"It passed," he said unnecessarily.
"I know," she replied.
He sat beside her, shoulders heavy. "I did what I had to do."
She turned her head toward him, eyes soft. "So did I."
They sat in silence, hands barely touching.
Outside, the city held—less vibrant, more cautious.
And beneath the fjords, the Deep Ones adjusted their strategy, having learned something essential:
If compassion could be removed by vote—
then power could be captured by patience.