The demand arrived wrapped in gratitude.
Rhen recognized the danger immediately—not in the words, but in the timing. Less than a day after the floodwaters receded, a delegation assembled beneath the eastern bridge: traders whose goods had been saved by swift corridors, builders grateful their quarter still stood, families who had slept dry because the city had moved fast.
They thanked the stewards.
They thanked Nymera.
They thanked the system.
Then they asked for more.
"Make the corridor lift permanent," a merchant said carefully. "Just along the delta routes."
"Formalize a fast lane," another added. "For emergencies. You proved it works."
Nymera sat with her hands folded in her lap, pale but attentive. Rhen stood at her side, feeling the judgment inside him hum—not alarmed, but wary.
Skelda crossed her arms. "You're asking us to keep friction down."
"Only where it matters," the first merchant replied. "Lives, livelihoods."
Rhen nodded slowly. "And who decides when it matters?"
A pause.
Then a shrug.
Then smiles.
Nymera answered softly. "Everyone does. That's the problem."
The proposal spread quickly—petitions signed, op-eds posted, stories retold with emphasis on the saved and gentle blur over the cracked wall. People wanted certainty they could feel in their bones. They wanted speed without the argument.
"They're afraid," Skelda said that evening. "And they're tired of counting costs."
Nymera stared at the basin, eyes rimmed red. "So am I."
Rhen leaned on the rail beside her. "This is how exceptions become norms."
"And norms become pressure," she replied.
The deep listened, currents quiet and attentive.
Your people prefer velocity, it observed.
Rhen didn't bristle. "So do yours."
We learned where friction can be lifted without collapse, the deep continued. You can institutionalize that.
Nymera closed her eyes. "You want us to make speed cheap."
We want you to reduce suffering.
She opened her eyes again. "Those are not the same."
The assembly convened with the weight of expectation heavy in the air.
Skelda called the motion. "Proposal: establish permanent expedited corridors for declared emergencies."
Voices rose—measured, persuasive.
"We already do this in practice."
"Why pretend we won't?"
"Write it down and be honest."
Rhen stepped forward. The judgment inside him steadied, not pointing to a future—anchoring the present.
"We will not make urgency permanent," he said. "We will not automate the exception."
A ripple of frustration moved through the hall.
Nymera added, "Because urgency, once guaranteed, stops being argued for. And when speed stops being argued for, it stops being accountable."
A voice from the back cracked, "Tell that to the next flood!"
Nymera met the speaker's gaze. "I will. Out loud. With you in the room."
Silence followed—tense, resentful.
Skelda put it to a vote anyway.
It failed.
Narrowly.
Enough.
The cost came swiftly.
A coalition withdrew funding for slow repairs. A popular steward resigned, citing burnout and "process paralysis." Rumors spread that the city cared more about principles than people.
Rhen felt the sting of it—not because it was unfair, but because it was plausible.
Nymera collapsed that night, exhaustion finally winning. Rhen sat beside her bed, holding her hand as healers murmured.
"They'll keep pushing," she whispered.
"I know," he said.
She opened her eyes. "Promise me we won't say yes just to quiet them."
He swallowed. "I promise."
The deep returned at dawn, quieter than before.
You refused certainty, it conveyed. That increases risk.
"Yes," Rhen replied. "And preserves choice."
Your people will blame you.
"Some already do," Nymera said, voice weak but clear.
A pause.
We respect refusal more than pretense.
Rhen raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"
We are learning to, the deep replied.
By midday, a storm gathered offshore—not catastrophic, but enough to test nerves. The city prepared methodically, friction intact, arguments scheduled and logged.
A child tugged Rhen's sleeve on the bridge. "Why don't you just make it faster all the time?"
Rhen knelt to meet her eyes. "Because fast is like fire," he said gently. "Warm when you need it. Dangerous when you don't."
She considered this, then nodded solemnly.
Nymera watched from the bench, smiling faintly.
That evening, as lanterns lit the streets, someone painted a new line beneath the marker at the repaired wall:
NOT YET.
No signature.
No explanation.
Just a reminder that restraint was not refusal forever—only until the argument could be made, the cost counted, the witnesses gathered.
Rhen stood with Nymera, the city murmuring around them.
"They'll ask again," she said.
He nodded. "And we'll answer again."
The deep flowed on—constrained, visible, patient in a way it had never been before.
And in that patience lay the city's most fragile strength:
The courage to say not yet—
even when speed promised comfort,
even when certainty begged to be written in stone.