Nymera learned the sound of fear changing pitch.
It happened on the third day of walking.
At first, it had been loud—voices raised, arguments breaking and reforming, the sharp crack of anger trying to become courage. But by the time the road bent toward the flooded lowlands, fear softened. It grew quieter. Heavier. It settled into people's shoulders and changed how they stepped.
That was the sound she listened for.
She walked at the center of the group—not leading, not protected. Mud coated the hem of her cloak. Her hands ached. Her breath came shallow when the road rose too fast.
No tidefire.
No authority.
Just presence.
A woman beside her finally spoke. "They won't stop just because you're here."
Nymera nodded. "I know."
"Then why come?"
Nymera answered without slowing. "Because suffering should never be theoretical."
The woman fell silent, tears tracking clean lines down her face.
In the city, Rhen felt every mile.
The judgment inside him kept reaching for Nymera—and finding only distance. Not severed. Just… stretched. Like a rope pulled too tight to sing.
"They're holding," Skelda reported quietly, standing beside him at the basin. "No new escalations. No relief either."
"They're watching her," Rhen said. "And us."
The dominant faction had gone unnervingly still. Currents adjusted with care that felt deliberate. No staggered crises. No sharp tests.
Nymera's presence had shifted the battlefield.
"She made restraint visible," Skelda muttered. "I hate that it works."
"So do they," Rhen replied.
On the fifth night, the floodplain shifted again.
Not violently.
Purposefully.
Water receded from one cluster of homes—slow, unmistakable. People froze, staring as mud emerged where water had ruled hours earlier.
Nymera felt it instantly.
"They changed something," she whispered.
The restrained faction answered—quiet, cautious.
Pressure eased at a cost elsewhere, the current conveyed. Dominant nodes disagreed.
Nymera's chest tightened. "They're arguing again."
Yes, the current replied. Your presence complicates command.
Nymera closed her eyes briefly. "Good."
That night, a child brought her bread.
It was stale. Carefully rationed.
"My father says you could have stayed safe," the boy said.
Nymera knelt despite the pain in her legs. "Would that have helped you?"
He thought for a long moment. "No."
She accepted the bread. Ate it slowly. "Then I'm where I should be."
Far away, Rhen felt the shift—not in pressure, but in story. Reports from the lowlands spread through the city, carried by traders and wardens alike.
"She didn't fix it."
"She didn't promise anything."
"She stayed."
People argued less after that.
The dominant faction spoke at last.
Not to Nymera.
To Rhen.
You allow vulnerability as tactic, the current conveyed. This is manipulation.
Rhen stood alone at the basin, voice steady. "It's accountability."
You risk her.
"Yes," he said. "With her consent."
A pause.
Consent is inefficient.
Rhen almost smiled. "You're starting to understand us."
The water darkened slightly—not anger.
Frustration.
The fracture deepened on the seventh day.
A violent surge tore through a distant trench—not near the city, not near Nymera. A clash between deep currents left pressure scars visible even on surface instruments.
Skelda stared at the readings. "They're fighting openly now."
"They can't agree on how to respond to her," Rhen said.
Nymera felt it too—a distant thunder through the water beneath her feet.
One of the elders beside her whispered, "Are we in danger?"
Nymera met his eyes. "Yes."
The honesty startled him.
"But not alone," she added.
That night, rain fell hard.
Nymera stood at the edge of the floodplain, water up to her calves, refusing shelter offered by those who had less than she did.
The water stilled around her.
Not command.
Recognition.
You persist, the current conveyed—fragmented, many-voiced now.
"Yes," Nymera replied softly. "So do you."
The dominant path demands escalation.
"And what do you demand?" she asked.
A long, trembling pause followed.
Time, the current said. Without punishment.
Nymera swallowed. "Time costs people."
So does certainty, it replied.
She looked back at the village—lanterns glowing, people sharing what little they had.
"I can't promise safety," she said. "But I can promise not to leave."
The water did not withdraw.
It settled.
At dawn, the floodline held.
Not perfect.
Not healed.
But stable.
Rhen felt it from the city—a loosening, slight but real.
"They bent," Skelda said quietly.
Rhen shook his head. "No. They hesitated."
Nymera returned that morning—muddy, exhausted, eyes clear.
Rhen met her at the bridge, hands shaking as he pulled her into his arms. "You scared me."
She leaned into him, voice rough. "Good."
He laughed weakly. "That's still not comforting."
She smiled faintly. "I stayed."
"Yes," he said, pressing his forehead to hers. "You did."
Far beneath the fjords, the deep remained divided—fractured, dangerous, unfinished.
But something had changed.
The ground itself had answered—not with power, not with victory—
but with proof that restraint could be lived, not just enforced.
And that was a language even the deep could not fully ignore.