The Conclave did not respond with anger.
They responded with evidence.
By morning, the city screens were filled with it.
Not propaganda.
Not sermons.
Statistics.
Clean, irrefutable numbers slid across public displays and news feeds.
Recovery rates increased by 43%.
Reported emotional distress reduced by 61%.
Workplace productivity stabilized.
Crime decreased in treated districts.
Graphs. Charts. Testimonials.
Smiling faces speaking calmly into cameras.
"I used to wake up afraid," one man said. "Now I don't."
"I feel lighter," a woman said. "I don't dwell anymore."
"They helped me move on," another added.
No lies.
That was the brilliance of it.
Elara watched the broadcast from the abandoned print shop, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Each number felt like a weight placed carefully, deliberately, on her chest.
"They're right," Mira said quietly, eyes scanning the data. "At least… partially."
Kael slammed his fist against a rusted table. "They're cherry-picking outcomes."
"Yes," Mira replied. "But not fabricating them."
Elara swallowed. "They don't need to lie. They just need to frame."
The city responded immediately.
Lines formed outside restoration clinics. People who had hesitated before now came willingly, clutching forms, pointing to the screens.
"See?" a woman said to her friend. "It works."
"I can't afford to feel like this anymore," a man muttered.
"They have proof," someone else insisted. "This is better."
Better.
The word echoed in Elara's mind like a verdict.
Kael paced the floor. "They're winning the argument."
"Yes," Elara said softly. "Because the argument isn't about truth anymore."
Mira turned to her. "Then what is it about?"
Elara closed her eyes.
"Tolerance for loss," she said. "How much of yourself you're willing to give up for relief."
They went back out into the city that afternoon.
Not to confront.
To observe.
In a café near the clinic district, Elara watched a woman sip her drink in silence. Her face was calm. Pleasant.
Too calm.
"Are you feeling better?" her companion asked.
The woman nodded. "I don't really feel much of anything."
"That's good, right?"
She hesitated. "I think so."
Elara felt the fracture ache sharply.
They moved on.
In a schoolyard, children played quietly, arguments resolved almost instantly. A teacher smiled, satisfied.
"Disputes don't escalate anymore," she said proudly. "They let go so easily."
Kael's voice was low. "They're not learning how to work through conflict."
"They're learning how to avoid it," Elara replied.
Avoidance masquerading as peace.
The Conclave held a public forum that evening.
Open. Transparent. Welcoming.
No robes. No symbols.
Just representatives in simple clothing, standing beneath bright lights.
A familiar healer took the stage.
"We are not here to control," he said calmly. "We are here to help people heal efficiently."
Applause followed.
Elara felt a familiar pull—a pressure inviting her to intervene.
She didn't.
She listened.
A woman stepped forward. "My son stopped crying after treatment. He sleeps now."
Another voice followed. "I can work again. I don't spiral anymore."
The healer nodded empathetically. "Pain consumes resources. Relief restores balance."
Balance.
There it was.
Elara felt Kael tense beside her.
Then a man approached the microphone—older, hesitant.
"I was treated," he said slowly. "It worked. I felt calm."
The room waited.
"But," the man continued,