The Cost of Knowing
The missing dockworker had a name.
Taren. Thirty-two. Two children. Known for singing while he worked and arguing about trade routes he'd never see.
Iria learned this not through official channels, but through the want—through the hollow, aching pull of people who had stopped asking questions out loud.
She stood at the edge of the docks as the night tide lapped against stone, the smell of salt and iron thick in the air. Lumi joined her, arms folded, gaze fixed on the dark water.
"They're afraid," Lumi said. "Not of us. Of each other."
"Fear travels faster when it doesn't have words," Iria replied.
The council convened an emergency session by public demand. Not to assign blame—but to ask whether the city still wanted truth borne openly, without filters or shields.
The question alone fractured the room.
One councilor stood. "We asked for transparency. We didn't ask to be exposed."
Another shot back, "Then you asked for a lie dressed as comfort."
The want surged, wild and torn.
Iria rose slowly. "Truth isn't a weapon," she said. "But it can become one when we pretend it doesn't cut."
She proposed a compromise—not silence, not secrecy, but context. Truth delivered with care. Protections for the vulnerable. Time given before revelations became public.
The Concord observed in silence, unreadable.
The motion passed—narrowly.
That night, Iria found Kael waiting outside her quarters, jaw tight.
"They found Taren," he said.
Alive.
Barely.
He'd been held by a local syndicate exploiting the new openness—using information flows to identify targets, silence dissent, profit quietly.
The Remainders had been right about one thing.
Truth had created opportunity.
Iria visited Taren before dawnless break, watching his chest rise and fall unevenly.
"This is on me," she whispered.
Kael shook his head. "This is on anyone who thinks freedom is free."
The want pulsed—not accusatory, but grieving.
By the time the sun-that-wasn't rose, arrests were underway. Not dramatic. Not sweeping. Careful, methodical, visible.
The syndicate would be dismantled slowly, without spectacle.
The city watched.
Some people felt safer.
Others felt betrayed.
Iria returned to the river, exhaustion settling into her bones.
Knowing had a cost.
Not knowing did too.
And leadership meant paying either way—
not in blood or crowns or praise,
but in the quiet weight of responsibility that no one else could carry for you.
As the water moved on, indifferent and endless, Iria vowed this:
No truth would be hidden for comfort.
No truth would be spoken without care.
The want softened—not satisfied, but listening.
And in that fragile balance, Noctyrrh took another step forward…
uncertain, scarred, and still choosing.