The arcade put on its night bones. Lamps made islands. Rain threaded from roof to gutter like someone sewing an apology. Thomas and Michelle arrived with nothing that looked like courage and everything that behaved like it.
Thibault had scouted the exits twice, then a third time because maps like attention. Patricia issued the permission you can't buy—"Back by the hour the bells forget themselves"—and Christian lent his pocket lamp with the air of a man arming a saint.
"Witness," Michelle said, soft as paper. Her ink had dried into the creases of her fingers like oaths that refused to leave.
"Witness," Thomas agreed.
Under the arcade, Syndics set tables into a square that pretended to be a room. Banners hung like tidy weather. A chalkboard propped against a pillar wore a city drawn from underneath: Lys, Verre, Chant, and the heavier line—Eau. On the table, brass tools lay in a row—level, fork, rod—engineers' manners for asking water to change its mind.
The man with the pinched saint-face presided, smile clipped to regulation. Beside him, the Prefecture inspector with puddle-respecting boots stacked forms as if they might shield her from foolishness. Three shopkeepers sat with backs too straight; two laborers with hands that had opinions; a glazier whose glasses knew his work.
"Order," the saint-face began, as if it could be called like a dog. "Tonight we seek a cooperative path with the river—mitigations for the recent floods in Passage Verre and a rational redirection of nuisance seep into municipal lines. Our engineer—"
The engineer tapped the brass fork and made the air behave. A tremor in the tool told him where Eau liked to rest. He underlined the spot on the chalk map with a neat, proprietary stroke.
Michelle's mouth smiled in a way her spine did not. "He's measuring a cathedral with a shoe," she murmured. "It can be done. But you look odd."
Thomas stood at the pillar where two shadows crossed: the rolled tarp's seam and the lantern hook's soot-kiss. He let his breath shrink until even his pockets forgot him. Two squeezes to Michelle's wrist—hold. She didn't need the signal. She already liked edges.
The saint-face recited a draft decree. "Whereas public safety requires, and whereas voluntary signatures are pending, Eau will be encouraged by sub-grade channels and valve gates to prefer the municipal route, relieving the arcades—"
"It's water," a laborer said. "Not a clerk."
The saint-face bestowed a look used on children and carpenters. "Nature recognizes leadership."
Thomas felt the pressure long before the drip. A seam under the chalkboard sighed; a breath colder than air pushed coins across the saint-face's papers by the thickness of a finger. The brass rod quivered, then tried to point somewhere it had not been asked to.
Do not make me the villain, the river said at the bones of the arcade. Not words—math. Count better.
The Syndics mistook omen for draft and folded their collars tighter. The engineer tried to domesticate a map with his pen. The Prefecture inspector's hand hovered—ready for a stamp, unwilling to lie.
The first noise came from the forms—paper tugged loose by tiny capillaries of damp. The second came from a small boy at the back—apprentice age—trying to see the map and oxygen at once. The third came from the saint-face, who tapped the table to remind it he was in charge. Tables resent that.
Thomas put his palm on the table's leg and pressed an idea into the wood—remember balance. He moved his hand to the crate jutting at the wrong angle and pressed be level. He let the oranges in a nearby barrow decide to stay round.
The market shifted from about to be stupid back to merely ambitious.
[SEQ] Ledger — Collateral prevented: +Credit (minor).
A water thread found a crack anyway and wrote a wet line across Eau like an underline that intended a signature. The engineer, flattered by coincidence, announced, "See? Confirmation."
"See?" Michelle echoed, iron behind her breath. "Coincidence is not consent."
The Prefecture inspector looked to the crowd. "If anyone has standing—as in, is about to be standing in water—speak."
Thomas lifted his hand.
Michelle's head turned by a degree. She had not expected that. Good.
"I'll serve as witness," he said. His voice was small enough not to insult the river.
The saint-face was pleased; witnesses could be framed. "Excellent. Your name for the record?"
"Thomas," he said. He did not add the rest. Names are rails; he preferred switches.
A wash of river-cold touched his ankles. Sequana approved of the scale of his honesty and disliked the venue. A pane arrived like a clerk sliding a folded note across a counter.
[SEQ] Side Quest — Under the Arcade: Arbitration
[SEQ] Status: In session. Witness: present (Michelle).
[SEQ] Noise tolerance: low. Brinks: active.
The saint-face gestured to the engineer, who lifted the fork again. The fork found Eau as if following a rumor. He marked a new line across Chant—a proposal; a wound.
"You are about to tell water to obey ink," Michelle said. "Please do it slower so we can all admire the moment."
The crowd laughed where it could afford to.
Something in the floor flexed. The chalk map glistened, not in light but in attention. Two shadows agreed harder at Thomas's pillar. The air tightened the way rooms do when a door learns it could exist.
"Witness," Michelle breathed, so low it could have been a mistake.
He stepped into the agreement.
He did not leap. He did not hurry. He simply let his foot go where shadow wanted foot to be, then took the next breath where shadow wanted breath to live. The corridor that had once tested him lent its arithmetic. The gap between pillar and dais shortened until it had no say.
Thomas left one shadow and arrived inside another.
People gasped the way you do when a magician doesn't insult you.
The saint-face's pen dropped. The engineer's fork sang. The inspector's boots decided to respect a different puddle.
The pane took the compliment of him not looking at it and spoke anyway.
[SEQ] Hidden Quest — Step Between Bells: Complete.
[SEQ] Unlocked — Shadow Jump (I): short hop between contiguous shadows; cost: Focus; cooldown: long.
"Permission to ask water a question," Thomas said, standing on the wrong side of the map.
The arcade—the river—the Dame—the city—answered by letting the chalk line of Eau lift a fraction from the board like the belly of a sleeping cat that wants acknowledgment.
He placed two fingers near the line, not touching. "Terms," he said quietly.
Michelle, somewhere sane, exhaled. "Arbitration," she said aloud, in the tone that makes rooms behave.
The saint-face smiled with all his teeth. He had no idea what price he was about to be quoted.
(…to be continued)