The Price of Being Believed
Belief, Lumi learned, was heavier than truth.
Truth arrived sharp and undeniable—it cut, then passed. Belief settled. It rooted itself into people, into systems, into laws written with steady hands and clean intentions.
By morning, their lie had become architecture.
Broadsheets appeared across Noctyrrh bearing a single image: Blake Crowe and Lumi Reyes, foreheads nearly touching beneath the watchhouse stars. The headline beneath read:
STABILITY ENDURES.
At twenty-two, Lumi had never seen herself rendered as reassurance.
She stood in the council antechamber, the paper trembling slightly in her hands. Around her, voices murmured—measured, confident. Plans were being made around her.
"She tempers him," one councilor said quietly.
"And he anchors her," another replied. "Together, they are balance."
Balance.
As if pain could be weighed and portioned.
Serath Vale entered without ceremony, his presence drawing silence like a held breath.
"We need your voice today," he said calmly. "Both of you."
Blake stiffened beside her. "For what, exactly?"
Serath gestured toward the chamber doors. "A public affirmation. Mercy Hours will expand into the outer districts. There has been… resistance."
Lumi felt the truth recoil.
"They want me to bless it," she whispered.
"Yes," Serath said simply. "Your silence will be read as dissent. Your dissent will invite disorder."
Blake turned to Lumi, conflict darkening his expression. "You don't have to—"
"I do," she interrupted softly. "If I don't speak, they'll speak for me."
The council chamber was full.
Citizens packed the galleries—faces hopeful, afraid, desperate for certainty. Guards lined the walls, their containment sigils faint but unmistakable.
Lumi stepped forward.
The truth surged, vast and aching.
If you speak, they will listen.
If you lie, they will build upon it.
Serath's voice carried smoothly. "Lady Reyes will now address the council on the necessity of Mercy Hours."
Lumi looked out at the crowd.
She saw the woman who had hidden chalk beneath her nails.
She saw the man who had lost a brother and wanted rest more than justice.
She saw fear dressed as hope.
Blake stood behind her, close enough that she could feel his warmth. His presence steadied her—but it could not decide for her.
Lumi opened her mouth.
And chose a third path.
"Mercy," she said, voice clear, "is not the absence of pain."
A ripple moved through the chamber.
"It is the willingness to witness it without erasing the one who carries it."
Serath's eyes sharpened.
"Silence," Lumi continued, "can be a kindness. But enforced silence is not mercy. It is fear wearing a gentler name."
The truth flared—blinding, unapologetic.
Gasps filled the chamber.
Serath rose slowly. "You were asked to affirm policy."
"I was asked to lend my belief," Lumi replied. "And belief cannot be compelled."
The chamber erupted—shouts, protests, pleas.
Blake moved instantly, shadows flaring as he placed himself at Lumi's side.
Serath's voice cut through the chaos. "This session is adjourned."
The guards closed ranks.
By nightfall, the consequences arrived.
Lumi's access to the watchhouse was revoked.
Her movements were restricted.
And a decree was issued:
THE TRUTH-BEARER WILL SERVE IN OBSERVATION ONLY.
Exile without distance.
On the balcony of their temporary quarters, Lumi stared out at the eternal night.
"I didn't save anyone," she whispered.
Blake stepped behind her, resting his hands on the railing beside hers. "You didn't let them use you."
The Dreadsword pulsed at his side—restless, displeased.
She could have ended this, it whispered.
Blake ignored it.
Below them, the city buzzed—uncertain, divided, awake.
Belief had been offered.
And refused.
The night deepened, holding its breath once more.
The price had been paid.
The reckoning had only begun.