When Gratitude Turns Hostile
Gratitude was not gentle.
It sharpened quickly.
Lumi learned that the first time someone spit at her feet.
"You should be ashamed," the woman said, voice trembling with something dangerously close to devotion. "He gave us sleep. You'd take it away."
The truth surged—raw, immediate.
She means it.
At twenty-two, Lumi had faced hatred before. This was different. This was protection.
Around them, the square bristled with quiet tension. People stood closer together than usual, bodies angled subtly toward Serath Vale, who watched from the steps of the old hall with calm restraint.
Lumi raised her hands slowly. "I'm not here to take anything," she said. "Only to ask that you understand what's being given."
Murmurs rippled.
Serath descended the steps, stopping a careful distance away. "Understanding isn't required for healing," he said gently. "Only consent."
Blake's shadows darkened, crawling outward like ink. "Consent requires knowledge."
Serath inclined his head. "And knowledge can be cruelty."
The truth did not contradict him.
That silence felt like betrayal.
A man near the fountain stepped forward, fists clenched. "My wife stopped crying," he said hoarsely. "For the first time since the raids. If you undo this—"
Lumi met his eyes, heart breaking open. "Then she'll remember why she cried," she finished softly.
The crowd shifted.
Anger flared—not at Serath, but at her.
Someone threw a stone.
Blake moved instinctively, shadows snapping up to deflect it—but Lumi raised a hand.
"No," she said. "Let them see me."
The stone struck her shoulder, pain sharp and real.
The truth flared bright—too bright.
Gasps tore through the crowd as memories surged unbidden—faces blanching as pain returned in jagged fragments.
"No!" someone screamed. "Make it stop!"
Serath's composure finally cracked. "Enough," he snapped.
He stepped forward, voice ringing with authority. "You prove my point. Truth without mercy is violence."
Lumi staggered, breath tearing free. "And mercy without truth is theft."
The crowd roared—fractured now, fear and gratitude colliding violently.
Blake pulled Lumi back, shadows surging defensively as the square erupted into chaos.
They barely escaped.
Back at the watchhouse, Lumi collapsed into a chair, shaking.
"They hate me," she whispered.
Blake knelt in front of her, hands firm on her knees. "They're afraid," he said. "You threatened their relief."
The Dreadsword pulsed—pleased.
Order would have prevented this, it murmured.
Lumi closed her eyes, exhaustion crashing down. "I hurt them."
"You showed them," Blake said. "There's a difference."
Outside, the city rang with argument and fear.
Gratitude had turned sharp.
And Lumi understood now that the most dangerous enemies were not liars or tyrants—but the people who believed you were stealing their peace.