The Shape of Want
The first time Iria refused to listen, it hurt.
Not physically—not at first. The pain came later, when her body realized her mind had closed a door her senses no longer knew how to shut.
She was in the lower council hall, seated three rows back, hands folded so tightly her fingers had gone numb. The Concord delegation spoke in careful rhythms, each phrase shaped to feel inevitable. Mutual benefit. Shared governance. Protective oversight.
Iria focused on the words and ignored the undercurrent.
Or tried to.
The want pooled anyway.
It gathered behind her eyes, a pressure like tears that refused to fall. She could feel it emanating from the room—thickest near the Concord envoy, but not limited to him. It spilled from councilors eager for stability, from merchants desperate for protection, from citizens who wanted nothing more than for the weight of deciding to be lifted from them.
Let them handle it.
Let someone else be responsible.
Let this be easier.
Her breath caught.
This wasn't mind-reading. It wasn't truth-bearing in the way Lumi had once carried it—clean, brutal, unyielding. This was subtler. Worse.
Desire didn't care whether it was justified.
She shifted in her seat. Across the hall, Kael Thorn leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, posture deliberately casual. He wasn't part of the council. He never was. Negotiators like him lived in the margins, where agreements were born and broken before they ever reached a table.
His gaze flicked to her.
You feel it too, she thought.
The envoy paused, smiling as if for effect. "We don't wish to rule Noctyrrh," he said. "Only to support its transition. Guidance, during a vulnerable time."
The want surged.
Iria's vision blurred.
She stood abruptly, chair scraping loud against stone.
Every head turned.
"I need air," she said, and did not wait for permission.
The corridor beyond was dimmer, cooler. She braced herself against the wall, breath shallow. The want followed her—fainter now, but insistent. Like a tide that didn't respect doors.
Footsteps approached.
"You can't outrun it," Kael said softly.
She laughed once, sharp. "Watch me try."
He stopped beside her, close enough that she could feel the absence of want from him—not emptiness, but containment. Whatever he desired, he held it tightly.
That terrified her.
"What is this?" she asked. "Tell me you've seen it before."
Kael hesitated. "Not like this. But I've seen realms fall because people mistook relief for freedom."
She closed her eyes. "They're going to give it away."
"Yes," he said. "And they'll call it peace."
Silence settled between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw Lumi at the end of the corridor, watching without intruding. Blake stood a step behind her, ever-present, ever-willing to remain unseen if that's what safety required.
Lumi approached slowly. "You don't have to carry this alone."
Iria swallowed. "I don't want to carry it at all."
Lumi smiled—not sadly. Honestly. "Neither did I."
The want stirred again, distant but patient.
Iria straightened.
"Then teach me," she said. "How to live with something that won't stop asking."
Lumi met her gaze. "First," she said, "you learn its shape."
And somewhere beneath the council hall, beneath the breathing borders and the smiling offers of safety, the night listened—open, unclaimed, and waiting to see who would decide what came next.