They didn't chase them.
That was the first thing Elara noticed as they slipped through the alleys behind the restoration hall. No raised voices, no alarms, no hurried footsteps pounding after them.
Just the city continuing as if nothing had happened.
"That's worse," Kael muttered, slowing only when they reached a narrow street lined with shuttered shops.
Mira nodded grimly. "They wanted witnesses. Not a confrontation."
Elara leaned against the brick wall, breath shallow. The fracture inside her pulsed—not violently, but insistently, like a bruise pressed too often.
"I interrupted them," she said quietly. "But I didn't stop them."
"No," Mira agreed. "You exposed them."
Kael turned to her sharply. "And that puts a target on you."
Elara managed a tired smile. "That target was already there."
The city responded by morning.
Not with outrage.
With revision.
Posters appeared overnight near the restoration hall and others like it—new wording, softer fonts.
GUIDED HEALING — SAFE, REGULATED, APPROVED
Protecting citizens from destabilizing influences.
Elara stared at one as people passed by without comment.
"They're reframing," she said.
Kael clenched his jaw. "They're blaming you."
"Not by name," Mira said. "That would give you shape. They're making you a concept instead."
A destabilizing influence.
An uncontrolled variable.
A risk.
"They're teaching people to fear anything that doesn't feel immediately good," Elara murmured. "And to distrust the discomfort that leads to change."
They took shelter in an abandoned print shop that afternoon—dusty presses, stacks of yellowed paper, the smell of ink lingering like a ghost. It was quiet enough for Elara to sit without feeling watched.
For a while.
Kael paced near the windows. "We can't keep reacting. They're staying ahead of us."
"Because they're not fighting us," Mira said. "They're shaping public trust."
Elara closed her eyes, listening—not outward, but inward.
The fracture responded slowly, reluctantly.
"I feel… strain," she said. "Not from damage. From being pulled in too many directions."
Kael stopped pacing. "What does that mean?"
"It means every time I counter them gently—without breaking things—I absorb the imbalance," she said. "I become the buffer."
Mira's face paled. "That's not sustainable."
"No," Elara agreed softly. "It's not meant to be."
Silence settled.
Kael's voice dropped. "Then we change how this works."
Elara opened her eyes. "How?"
"We stop making you the only point of resistance," he said. "We stop letting them define the battlefield."
Mira's brows knit. "You mean… decentralize?"
Elara felt something shift inside her—not relief, but recognition.
"Yes," she said slowly. "We stop opposing them directly. We let people experience the difference."
Kael frowned. "That sounds abstract."
"It's practical," Elara replied. "The Conclave promises relief without cost. We don't argue. We show the cost."
The opportunity came sooner than expected.
That evening, screams echoed from two streets over—short, sharp, panicked.
Kael was already moving. "That's not staged."
They found the source in a narrow courtyard.
A man lay on the ground, convulsing, breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes were wide with terror—not pain.
Two Conclave healers stood nearby, hands glowing brightly, their expressions strained.
"It's not working," one of them hissed. "He's rejecting it."
"Push harder," the other snapped. "He can't feel this way—it's resistance."
Elara felt the fracture flare painfully.
They weren't erasing grief this time.
They were overwriting fear.
"Stop!" Elara shouted.
The healers turned.
"This is our patient," one said sharply. "Step back."
Elara knelt beside the man, ignoring the burning in her chest.
"What's your name?" she asked.
He choked on a breath. "Jonah."
"Jonah," she said gently, meeting his gaze. "You're not dying. You're panicking."
The healer scoffed. "Fear response—"
"—is information," Elara snapped. "Not a malfunction."
She placed her hand near Jonah's—not on him.
"Don't push it away," she said softly. "Stay with me."
Jonah's breathing hitched.
The healers shouted, light flaring brighter.
Elara felt the pull again—pressure demanding she override.
She refused.
She anchored instead.
Her voice stayed steady.
"Count with me," she whispered. "Not to calm down. Just to stay."
Jonah's breaths slowed—not because the fear vanished, but because it was no longer fought.
The healers' light faltered.
People gathered, murmuring.
"What did she do?"
"She didn't heal him."
"She didn't touch him."
Jonah sat up slowly, shaking but conscious.
"I can feel it," he whispered. "But it's not killing me."
The healers stepped back, faces pale.
This time, the witnesses mattered.
By nightfall, word spread.
Not loudly.
Carefully.
Some healings didn't hold.
Some people felt worse afterward.
Some felt empty.
And some—after refusing the Conclave's touch—found relief simply by being seen.
"They can't suppress this," Mira said quietly as they watched the city from a rooftop. "Not without force."
"And force would break the illusion," Kael added.
Elara sagged slightly, exhaustion finally winning.
"It's working," she said. "But it's costing me more each time."
Kael turned to her, voice fierce. "Then we make sure it costs them something too."
She looked at him, surprised.
"Trust," he continued. "Once they lose that, all their certainty collapses."
Elara gazed out at the city—lights flickering, people moving, choices being made quietly.
"Then this isn't about stopping them," she said. "It's about letting people decide."
The fracture inside her pulsed once—approving, heavy.
But somewhere beyond the city, the Conclave gathered, studying reports with growing urgency.
Subjects resisting.
Witnesses questioning.
Interventions failing.
One voice cut through the rest.
"Then we escalate," it said calmly. "Not with force."
A pause.
"With proof."
Elara shivered, though the night was warm.
Something was coming.
Something designed not to harm—
—but to convince.
And conviction, she knew, could be far more dangerous than violence.