Those Who Chose to Be Angry
Anger arrived after hunger learned its limits.
It did not shout at first. It gathered. It watched who ate and who waited. It memorized names and reasons and decided, slowly, that knowing why did not make loss lighter.
Cassian felt it before it spoke. He moved through the basin with a care that bordered on apology, listening more than recording. "There is tension," he said quietly. "Not panic. Direction."
Lucien did not look away from the ridge. "Toward whom."
Cassian hesitated. "Toward you."
I nodded. "Good."
Lucien turned sharply. "Good."
"Yes," I replied. "Anger that names a face is safer than anger that searches for one."
The first confrontation came near the central fire.
A group of laborers stepped forward together, shoulders tight, eyes bright with exhaustion. They did not shout. They did not threaten. They spoke with the precision of people who had decided what they wanted to say.
"You told us to record," the one in front said. "We did."
Cassian lifted his stylus. "Go on."
"We recorded our need," the speaker continued. "We waited our turn. We accepted the reasons."
A murmur of agreement rippled behind him.
"And," he said, voice tightening, "we still went hungry."
Lucien inhaled sharply.
I stepped closer. "Yes."
Silence fell.
The honesty startled them.
"You knew," another voice said. "You knew some of us would go without."
"Yes," I replied.
"And you let it happen," the first speaker said.
"Yes," I said again.
Cassian's hand trembled, but he kept writing.
Anger voiced.
Reason stated.
Response acknowledged.
"You talk about truth," the man said, anger sharpening now. "But truth does not fill a bowl."
"No," I agreed. "It fills a record."
That was when the anger flared.
Shouts rose. Not violent. Accusatory. People spoke at once, stories overlapping. Missed meals. Children crying. Pride swallowed too late.
Lucien stepped forward instinctively.
I raised my hand.
"Record this," I said.
Cassian did.
As voices became words, the edge dulled. Not gone. Contained.
The first speaker stared at me. "So what now."
I met his gaze steadily. "Now you decide what you want to do with your anger."
He scoffed. "You think that helps."
"No," I replied. "I think it matters."
The crowd waited.
I took a breath. "You can demand secrecy. You can demand force. Or you can demand change and be seen demanding it."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "You are inviting them to oppose you."
"Yes," I said.
Cassian looked up sharply. "Publicly."
"Yes."
The first speaker laughed once, bitter. "You want us to protest you."
"I want you to choose," I replied. "And record why."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Then one voice spoke, quieter. "If we protest, they will punish us."
"Yes," I replied.
"And if we do nothing," another said, "we starve quietly."
"Yes," I replied.
They looked at each other.
Anger shifted.
Not toward me.
Toward the choice.
By afternoon, the basin held two gatherings.
One near the ledger.
One near the outer stones.
No banners.
No chants.
Just people speaking their anger aloud and writing it down.
Cassian moved between them, recording without commentary.
Lucien watched, hands clenched. "They are fracturing."
"No," I said. "They are articulating."
Stonecliff responded faster than expected.
A proclamation spread through the outer regions, condemning unrest and warning that recorded dissent would be treated as coordination with destabilizing elements.
Lucien read it and swore softly. "They are threatening hunger with law."
"Yes," I replied. "Because law looks cleaner than force."
The fifth presence brushed my awareness.
"This is where anger usually becomes violence," he said quietly.
"Only if it is ignored," I replied.
As dusk fell, a young woman approached me alone. Her hands shook.
"I was at the fire," she said. "I shouted."
"Yes," I replied.
"They wrote my name," she whispered.
"Yes," I said again.
She swallowed. "What happens to me now."
I looked at her carefully. "You will be remembered accurately."
Her eyes filled. "That is not protection."
"No," I said gently. "It is dignity."
She nodded slowly and walked away, shoulders still trembling but spine straight.
Lucien watched her go. "You are asking them to pay the price of visibility."
"Yes," I replied. "Instead of the price of silence."
Night fell with a brittle quiet.
The two gatherings did not disperse. They slept where they sat, fires low, anger cooling into resolve or despair.
Cassian approached me near midnight. "There is talk," he said quietly. "Of marching to Stonecliff's inspectors."
Lucien stiffened. "That will end badly."
"Yes," I replied. "If it is hidden."
"And if it is recorded," Cassian asked.
"Then it becomes something else," I said.
Lucien stared at me. "You would let them."
"I would not lead them," I replied. "I would not stop them."
The fifth presence studied me in silence.
"You are allowing the truth to wound you," he said.
"Yes," I replied. "So it does not rot."
Dawn came sharp and cold.
The march did not happen.
Instead, a delegation formed.
Angry.
Hungry.
Documented.
They requested passage to the inspectors, not to beg, but to speak.
Lucien looked at me. "This is dangerous."
"Yes," I replied.
"And if Stonecliff arrests them."
"Yes," I said.
He closed his eyes briefly. "Say the word."
I shook my head. "They choose."
They went.
Cassian recorded the departure.
Delegation formed.
Anger stated.
Purpose declared.
The basin waited.
Hours passed.
Then a message arrived.
Stonecliff had refused to meet them.
Had warned them to disperse.
Had not detained them.
Lucien exhaled sharply. "They backed off."
"No," I replied. "They are watching."
The delegation returned near sunset.
Exhausted.
Unbroken.
"They would not listen," the first speaker said. "But they saw us."
"Yes," I replied.
"And they know we are angry," he continued.
"Yes," I said.
He nodded once. "Good."
That night, the ledger pulsed with a new kind of entry.
Anger recorded.
Choice made.
Violence withheld.
I stood alone before it long after others slept.
This was the cost no one celebrated.
To let anger live without directing it.
To let it accuse without answering back.
To let it choose visibility over release.
Stonecliff had expected hunger to end this.
They had not accounted for anger that refused to disappear into silence.
Tomorrow, anger would test its own limits.
And I would let it.
Not because I was strong.
But because truth could not survive if only the calm were allowed to speak.
And if this ended with blame carved into my name, then so be it.
Better a name written honestly than a lie that fed no one at all.