Scarcity did not announce itself.
It crept in quietly, hiding behind routine and habit, behind the comfort of thinking tomorrow would resemble today. Kael noticed it in the way food was portioned, in how people lingered longer near supply stores, in how Arien's people spoke less and listened more.
The valley still stood.
That was the problem.
Stability hid pressure until something cracked.
Kael stood inside one of the storage shelters, hands resting on a crate of dried grain. The amount was enough. Barely. Enough for now always became not enough later.
Arien stood opposite him, arms folded loosely.
"We lost a route," she said.
Kael did not look up. "How."
"Not violence," she replied. "Inspection. Heaven tightened passage checks. Nothing overt. Just enough to make risk expensive."
Kael nodded slowly.
"And what does that mean."
Arien hesitated.
"Choices," she said.
They sat near the central fire that evening.
Not formally.
But everyone felt the shift.
Arien's group stayed to one side. The valley's people gathered closer together than before. Children were kept nearer to parents. Conversations dipped when Kael passed.
Kael hated that he understood why.
Arien spoke first.
"Our remaining routes can supply one of two things," she said calmly. "Food. Or medicine."
Silence fell.
Someone laughed nervously. "That's a joke."
Arien did not smile.
"It is math," she said.
Kael closed his eyes briefly.
This was it.
Not heaven.
Not infiltration.
This.
"If we choose food," Arien continued, "everyone eats. Those already sick will likely die."
A murmur spread.
"And if we choose medicine," she went on, "the sick stabilize. Others starve slowly."
The murmurs grew louder.
Kael felt blood resonance spike across the valley. Fear. Anger. Calculation.
"Why is this even a question," someone shouted. "We protect our own."
Kael opened his eyes.
"Who is our own," he asked quietly.
The voice faltered.
A woman stepped forward.
"My daughter needs medicine," she said. "She will not survive the winter without it."
A man followed.
"My sons work the fields," he said. "If they weaken, we all starve."
The lines formed instantly.
Not drawn by Kael.
Drawn by need.
Arien watched him closely.
This was the moment she had predicted.
Kael stood.
Pain flared sharply through his legs, then settled.
"We will not decide by shouting," he said.
That calmed nothing.
He raised his voice slightly.
"We will decide by consequence."
Silence fell again.
"What does that mean," someone demanded.
Kael looked at them.
"It means I choose," he said. "And I accept the cost."
The words tasted bitter.
Necessary.
He turned to Arien.
"How much medicine," Kael asked.
"Enough for twenty," she replied.
"And food."
"Enough for everyone. Barely."
Kael exhaled slowly.
Structural Breathing steadied the warmth as the Sovereign Seed pulsed, heavier than ever.
He saw the path clearly.
He hated it.
"Medicine goes to the sick," Kael said.
A wave of relief surged from one side.
"Food is rationed," he continued. "Hard."
The relief faltered.
"Those who are able will work," Kael said. "Fields. Repairs. Patrols. No exceptions."
Anger flared.
"And if we cannot," someone shouted.
Kael met the man's gaze.
"Then you will still eat," he said. "But less."
The anger sharpened.
This was not fairness.
It was survival math.
Arien nodded slowly.
"That will cause resentment," she said.
"Yes," Kael replied.
"And fractures."
"Yes."
She watched him carefully.
"You are choosing slow suffering over immediate death," she said.
Kael nodded.
"Because slow suffering allows adaptation," he replied. "Immediate death does not."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
That night, Kael did not sit with anyone.
He walked the perimeter alone, pain building with each step as his bones protested the extended strain. He welcomed it.
Pain did not argue.
He passed a shelter and overheard whispers.
"He saved her," one voice said.
"He doomed us," another replied.
Kael kept walking.
Before dawn, Arien found him near the ridge.
"You made the correct choice," she said quietly.
Kael did not answer.
"You do not believe that," she added.
Kael looked out over the valley.
"No," he said. "I believe I made the least wrong one."
Arien nodded.
"That is all anyone ever does."
She paused.
"Heaven will notice this," she said. "Scarcity reveals patterns."
Kael's jaw tightened.
"I know."
Morning brought tension.
Rations were distributed.
Work assigned.
People complied.
Not willingly.
But they complied.
That frightened Kael more than rebellion would have.
Obedience under resentment was a slow poison.
By midday, the first refusal came.
A young man dropped his tools.
"I will not work while my brother starves," he said.
Kael approached him calmly.
"Your brother receives medicine," Kael said.
"And I receive nothing," the man replied bitterly.
Kael studied him.
"You receive time," Kael said. "Use it."
The man spat and walked away.
Kael did not stop him.
Some lines had to be tested.
That night, Kael sat alone again.
The Sovereign Seed pulsed faintly, responding to sustained pressure.
Not growing.
Condensing.
"I understand you now," Kael murmured. "You are not power. You are weight."
The warmth remained controlled.
But thinner.
Hunger pressed against restraint.
Far above, heaven recorded the shift.
"Resource stress introduced," an attendant said. "Entity prioritized adaptive survival over immediate equilibrium."
The Heavenly Sovereign nodded.
"That confirms it," he said.
"Confirms what."
"It will choose structure over sentiment," the Sovereign replied. "Which means it can be predicted."
Below, Kael watched the valley dim into night.
People slept hungry.
Some slept relieved.
Some slept angry.
All slept under his decision.
And Kael understood something that no amount of pressure had taught him.
Power was not tested when you had enough.
It was tested when there was not.
And the heaviest weight a sovereign ever carried was not authority.
It was the knowledge that someone would suffer no matter what he chose.