The review did not begin with accusations.
It began with questions.
That, more than anything, unsettled the city.
Nymera sat alone at the center of the smaller chamber beneath the eastern bridge—no basin, no water, no open sky. Just stone, light, and three review stewards chosen by lot: a merfolk archivist, a human systems jurist, and a Moonbound elder whose scars spoke of battles long finished and lessons not yet learned.
Rhen was not allowed inside.
That rule hurt more than he expected.
He paced the bridge above, feeling the absence like a pressure imbalance in his chest. The judgment within him tried to map outcomes, but this process resisted prediction by design.
Nymera, for once, was not allowed to shape the space.
Only to speak.
Inside, the archivist began gently. "Nymera of the Tides, do you affirm that your actions during the surge knowingly violated the standing framework?"
"Yes," Nymera replied without hesitation.
The jurist nodded. "Do you affirm that those actions saved lives that would otherwise have been lost?"
"Yes."
The Moonbound elder leaned forward. "Do you believe the system would have survived if you had not intervened?"
Nymera paused.
This was the question that mattered.
"I believe," she said slowly, "that the system would have functioned. I do not believe it would have been worthy of survival."
Silence filled the chamber—not shocked, not angry.
Attentive.
The jurist exhaled. "That answer will trouble many."
"It should," Nymera said softly. "It troubles me."
Word filtered upward slowly, imperfectly.
People gathered on the bridge, exchanging fragments of testimony like fragile artifacts. Some nodded grimly. Others bristled.
"She thinks she gets to decide what's worthy."
"She's saying what we're afraid to admit."
"She nearly broke everything."
Rhen listened without intervening.
Leadership, he had learned, sometimes meant letting truth arrive unevenly.
Skelda joined him, arms folded. "They're split."
"Yes," Rhen said. "Cleanly."
She glanced at him sideways. "And you?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"I'm afraid," he said at last. "That if we punish her, we teach obedience. And if we restore her, we teach dependency."
Skelda grimaced. "And if you do nothing?"
"We teach avoidance," Rhen replied.
None of the options tasted like victory.
The Deep Ones did not speak during the review.
They watched.
Rhen felt them as a distant alignment—no pressure, no probes. Just observation tuned to a single question:
Can this system discipline compassion without erasing it?
The basin remained dark.
That worried him more than any surge.
Inside the chamber, the questions sharpened.
The jurist asked, "If restored to authority, would you intervene again under similar conditions?"
Nymera closed her eyes.
"Yes," she said.
Gasps rippled from the observers.
"And if removal were permanent?" the jurist pressed.
Nymera opened her eyes. "Then I would teach others how to intervene. Quietly. Carefully. Until the system caught up."
The Moonbound elder barked a short, humorless laugh. "You don't bend easily."
Nymera met his gaze. "Neither does the tide."
The archivist tilted her head. "If you were never given authority again… would you stay?"
Nymera's throat tightened.
"Yes," she said. "This is my city."
By nightfall, exhaustion crept through stone and bone alike.
Rhen sat alone at the basin, staring into water that reflected nothing—not even his own face. The weight inside him felt… unsettled. Not heavier.
Uncertain.
He realized then that judgment alone was insufficient.
Judgment could weigh choices.
It could not heal fractures.
Footsteps approached.
Nymera stood at the edge of the bowl, leaning heavily on a cane carved from drift-ice. Her face was drawn, but her eyes were clear.
"They're done," she said.
Rhen stood immediately. "What did they decide?"
She shook her head. "They're still arguing."
He laughed quietly, then stopped. "Of course they are."
They stood side by side, not touching.
"Did you regret it?" he asked.
Nymera considered. "I regret the cost," she said. "I don't regret the choice."
Rhen nodded. "I would have been afraid if you had."
She smiled faintly. "You're learning my language."
At dawn, the review council emerged.
Faces solemn. Voices tired.
Skelda read the decision aloud.
"Nymera of the Tides will not be restored to singular authority. Nor will she be removed from the city's stewardship."
Murmurs rose.
"She will serve as Advisor Without Override—her voice present, recorded, and challengeable. No unilateral action. No emergency authority."
Nymera exhaled slowly.
"And," Skelda continued, "a parallel motion passes: creation of a Compassion Exception Clause, tightly defined, requiring immediate collective assent."
The city stilled.
Rhen felt the judgment inside him shift—not settle, but breathe.
Nymera closed her eyes, tears slipping free. "You built a door," she whispered.
Skelda nodded grimly. "One we hope we never open."
The Deep Ones stirred.
Not approval.
Not rejection.
Interest.
Rhen felt it then—the next phase approaching, quieter and more dangerous than any surge.
They had learned the city could discipline mercy.
Now they would test whether mercy, constrained, could still resist capture.