Morning came with orders.
That alone unsettled Kael.
The island had barely slept after the Anchor's appearance. Watch rotations had doubled. Lanterns had burned through the night. Fighters were still stretched thin when the horns sounded again—not for alarm, but assembly.
That was worse.
Kael joined the flow of people moving toward the central yard. Conversations were low, clipped. No one argued. No one joked.
False calm hung over everything.
Ronas stood at the front with the Wardens and elders. He waited until everyone had gathered.
"We held," he said.
The words echoed across the yard.
"We did not lose ground," Ronas continued. "We did not lose lives."
That was true.
But it wasn't the whole truth.
"The Anchor withdrew," he said. "And the sea has returned to normal behavior."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Because of us?" someone asked.
Ronas didn't answer directly.
"We adapted," he said instead. "That is what matters."
Kael felt it then—the shift.
This wasn't reassurance.
It was control.
The new orders followed quickly.
Outer platforms would be reopened.
Patrol distances shortened.
Strikers permitted limited pursuit again.
Training schedules restored.
"We cannot allow fear to dictate our lives," Ronas said.
Many nodded.
Some relaxed visibly.
Kael didn't.
He glanced at Tavian, who was already frowning.
"That's fast," Tavian muttered.
"Too fast," Kael agreed.
The island moved as instructed.
Within hours, boats returned to the outer water. Watchers took their old posts. Traders reopened stalls. The sound of hammers and voices returned.
Normalcy was enforced.
Lyra walked beside Kael as they moved along the eastern path.
"They want things to feel the same," she said.
"They want people to stop asking questions," Kael replied.
Lyra hesitated. "Is that wrong?"
Kael considered it. "Not always."
"But now?" she asked.
Kael looked out at the sea.
"Yes."
Training resumed that afternoon.
Harder than before.
Wardens pushed fighters relentlessly, as if exhaustion itself could drown doubt. Sparring rings filled quickly.
Kael was matched twice in quick succession.
First against Mira.
Then against Rask.
Mira fought aggressively, frustration in every movement. Kael blocked, redirected, forced distance. Neither gained a clear advantage.
Rask was different.
He attacked like he wanted to prove something.
"You think you're right?" Rask snapped as their blades locked.
"I think we're lying to ourselves," Kael replied.
Rask shoved him back. "That Anchor didn't touch us."
"That doesn't mean it couldn't," Kael said.
Rask's eyes burned. "Or maybe it didn't need to."
The match ended without a clear winner.
But the tension didn't.
By evening, the consequences of false order began to show.
A Watcher misread a current shift and raised a false alarm. Patrol boats scrambled unnecessarily. Supplies were wasted.
A Shield broke formation during a routine drill, nerves frayed.
No one was punished.
That worried Kael more than discipline ever had.
"They're afraid to push too hard," Tavian said quietly as they watched medics tend to a sprained arm. "Because then people might break."
"And if they don't?" Kael asked.
Tavian exhaled. "Then something worse breaks later."
Ronas summoned Kael privately that night.
Not to the hall.
To the old watchtower.
"You spoke out yesterday," Ronas said, standing near the narrow window.
"Yes."
"And you are speaking again today," Ronas continued. "Not loudly. But clearly."
Kael met his gaze. "People feel it. Pretending otherwise won't erase it."
Ronas turned toward the sea. "Leadership is not about truth alone. It's about timing."
"And when is the right time?" Kael asked.
"When panic won't destroy us," Ronas replied.
Kael clenched his jaw. "What if waiting does?"
Ronas didn't answer.
That silence was answer enough.
That night, Drifters returned.
Not in force.
Not in coordination.
Just enough to test the reopened platforms.
A single attack. Quick. Sharp.
Two fighters were injured.
No deaths.
The alarm sounded late.
Too late.
Kael stood on the wall afterward, watching medics carry the wounded away.
"They were waiting," he said.
Lyra nodded. "For us to relax."
The council issued another statement the next morning.
"Minor incident."
"Contained."
"Expected fluctuation."
The words rang hollow.
Kael noticed people stopped asking questions aloud.
They whispered instead.
Tavian brought Kael a stack of copied patrol notes that afternoon.
"They're inconsistent," Tavian said. "Times don't line up. Distances don't make sense."
"Because they're being rewritten?" Kael asked.
"Because they're being simplified," Tavian replied. "Complexity scares people."
Kael scanned the notes.
"What happens when reality refuses to be simple?" he asked.
Tavian smiled humorlessly. "Then reality wins."
That evening, Lyra tried to leave the island.
Not openly.
Quietly.
She was stopped before she reached the outer docks.
The guards were gentle.
Firm.
"You can't," they told her. "Not now."
She returned furious and shaken.
"They're locking us in," she said.
"No," Kael replied softly. "They're trying to hold us together."
Lyra laughed bitterly. "By force?"
Kael had no answer.
Night fell heavy.
Kael walked the walls alone again.
The sea was calm.
But it no longer felt neutral.
Every wave felt measured.
Every silence felt deliberate.
False order had settled over the island like a thin crust.
Underneath, something moved.
And Kael knew—deep down—that when it broke, it would not break gently.
Far beyond the light of the lanterns, the water shifted.
Observation complete.
Response pending.