The Shape of Obedience
Order arrived quietly.
Not with banners or decrees, but with hands placed gently on shoulders and voices lowered in concern.
Lumi saw it first in the markets.
Guards—no longer wearing council insignia, but pale bands stitched with Serath's sigil—moved through the crowd with practiced calm. They did not threaten. They guided.
"Not that stall," one murmured kindly. "It stirs difficult memories."
A woman nodded, compliant, and turned away.
At twenty-two, Lumi felt the truth twist inside her—not sharp, but nauseating.
"They're policing emotion," she whispered to Blake.
"They're preventing unrest," Blake replied, eyes dark. "By deciding what people are allowed to feel."
The truth pulsed.
Obedience is easier when it feels like care.
That afternoon, a notice appeared on every corner.
MERCY HOURS
During which time, public discourse would be moderated to "protect communal well-being." Speaking of raids, loss, or unresolved grief was discouraged. Repeat offenders would be escorted to relief halls for "assistance."
Lumi's hands shook as she read.
"They've made forgetting a civic duty," she said.
In the relief halls, incense burned thick and sweet. People sat in orderly rows, sipping draughts that dulled the edges of memory. Soft-spoken attendants moved among them, smiling.
"This isn't force," one attendant told Lumi when she questioned them. "Everyone here chose to come."
The truth whispered its caveat.
Choice narrows under pressure.
That night, Blake stood alone in the training yard, the Dreadsword humming low and eager.
This could end, the blade murmured. One command. One structure. Obedience enforced rather than requested.
Blake's grip tightened. Sweat traced cold lines down his spine.
"And how many would bleed?" he asked.
Fewer than will bleed for uncertainty.
The argument slid too easily into place.
From the shadows, Lumi watched him struggle, fear coiling tight in her chest.
"Blake," she said softly.
He turned, jaw clenched, eyes too bright. "I understand why they're doing it," he admitted. "People are calmer. Safer."
"And quieter," Lumi replied. "You don't calm a storm by removing the sky."
The truth surged—aching, relentless.
Peace without voice is compliance, not healing.
The next morning, a protest gathered near the old bell tower.
Not loud. Not violent.
Just people holding scraps of paper—names, dates, memories they refused to let fade.
Serath arrived within minutes.
"This isn't forbidden," he said evenly. "But it is unnecessary."
A woman stepped forward, hands shaking as she held up a name. "My brother existed," she said. "You don't get to decide when that stops mattering."
For the first time, Serath hesitated.
The guards moved in—not roughly, but firmly—lowering hands, turning bodies away.
Blake stepped forward.
The Dreadsword sang.
The sound split the square like a wound.
Everyone froze.
Blake did not strike.
He lowered the blade instead.
"No one moves," he said, voice steady and deadly quiet. "No one is silenced today."
The truth flared—bright and undeniable.
Serath studied Blake carefully. "You're choosing chaos."
"I'm choosing people," Blake replied.
The standoff ended without blood—but something fundamental shifted.
That night, Serath's followers doubled their patrols.
And in quiet corners of Noctyrrh, people began to whisper a new, dangerous question:
If mercy can be enforced… how long before it demands obedience?
On the watchhouse roof, Lumi leaned into Blake, exhaustion heavy in her bones.
"You're becoming something they fear," she said.
Blake stared into the night, stars faint but stubborn overhead. "So are you."
The truth settled between them, grave and clear.
The shape of obedience has been drawn.
And now the realm would decide whether to step inside it—or tear it apart.