The second crisis arrived before the city had finished arguing about the first.
Rhen was mid-briefing—voices overlapping, stress curves still fresh on the walls—when the ledger flared amber again. Then another. Then a third.
Nymera's fingers tightened on the edge of the table. "That's not coincidence."
Skelda swore. "They're staggering events."
Rhen felt it too—the pattern snapping into place. Not brute force. Tempo. A series of emergencies spaced just close enough to exhaust consent without allowing recovery.
"They're engineering hesitation," Rhen said. "Trying to turn the door into a reflex."
The first alert: a landslip along the western ridge—miners trapped.
The second: a sudden temperature inversion collapsing a kelp nursery.
The third: inland, where river ice buckled and threatened to flood a low settlement.
Each alone might be handled by standard response.
Together, they were designed to overwhelm it.
Nymera closed her eyes, calculating windows. "If we use the Compassion Exception on all three, the inlet fractures. If we use it on none—people die."
Rhen's jaw tightened. The judgment inside him flared, offering no clean branch.
"Split response," he said. "One exception. Two standard."
Skelda stared. "You're choosing who we save fastest."
"Yes," Rhen replied quietly. "So the system survives long enough to save more."
Nymera opened her eyes, pain flashing through them. "That's triage."
"It always was," he said.
The city gathered—faster now, practiced, grim. Skelda called the clause. Nymera stated the cases, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it.
Votes were cast—harder this time.
The exception passed for the miners. Standard response for the others.
The door opened.
Nymera coordinated again, careful not to exceed limits. The miners were freed—injured, alive. Relief rippled, muted by the knowledge of what was still unfolding elsewhere.
Reports came in from the river settlement—houses flooded, families evacuated just in time. Losses, but survivable.
Then the kelp nursery.
Nymera went still as the report arrived. "They didn't make it."
A silence fell so heavy it felt like pressure.
Rhen closed his eyes, feeling the weight settle into his bones. The choice had been correct by every metric they had agreed upon.
It did not feel like victory.
The water answered—not cruel, not triumphant.
You ration mercy, it conveyed. So do we.
Rhen's hands clenched. "You caused this."
We revealed it.
Nymera's voice shook. "You stacked the crises."
We tested the door, the current replied. It opens—but not always.
Skelda slammed her fist against the stone. "They're killing by math."
Rhen met the basin's dark surface. "And you're learning our thresholds too well."
The water smoothed.
Then close the door, it suggested. Or accept the cost.
That night, the city fractured openly.
Arguments broke into the streets—no violence, but voices raw with grief and accusation.
"Why them and not us?"
"They chose miners over children!"
"They followed the rules!"
Nymera retreated to the infirmary, trembling with exhaustion. Rhen followed, sitting at her bedside as healers worked to stabilize her shaking hands.
"I can't keep doing this," she whispered. "They're pushing me until I break again."
Rhen swallowed. "I know."
She looked at him, eyes burning. "If we close the door, we abandon people. If we keep it open, they'll bleed us dry."
He took her hand gently. "Then we change the game."
"How?" she asked.
Rhen stared at the ceiling, judgment sharpening into resolve. "We stop letting them choose the timing."
Before dawn, Rhen stood alone at the basin.
The city slept fitfully. The ledger glowed faintly, scars of amber and green still fresh.
He spoke without ceremony. "No more staggered crises."
The water stirred, attentive.
"You want to test us?" Rhen continued. "Do it openly. One front. One moment."
A pause—long, thoughtful.
That increases your risk, the current replied.
"Yes," Rhen said. "And removes your advantage."
Nymera appeared at the edge of the bowl, wrapped in blankets, eyes fierce despite her exhaustion. "If you want the door," she said softly, "you face us when we're ready—not when we're tired."
The basin darkened, pressure coiling—not striking.
You offer escalation.
"We offer honesty," Rhen replied. "The same thing you keep claiming to learn."
Silence stretched.
Then—withdrawal.
Not agreement.
Consideration.
Rhen exhaled slowly, realizing his hands were shaking.
Nymera leaned against him. "That was reckless."
He smiled faintly. "You taught me."
Far beneath the fjords, hunger recalculated again—not around patience or timing now—
—but around confrontation.
The door still stood.
But the siege had begun.