Michael met her because she waited.
Not outside a gallery, not at a signing, not in the digital churn where his work now lived its loudest life—but in a quiet side room of a community arts space hosting a panel he hadn't wanted to attend.
He was there out of obligation. A curator had insisted it would "humanize the discourse." Michael wasn't sure what that meant, only that it sounded like being placed gently under glass.
The panel ended with polite applause and unresolved tension. People lingered in clusters, voices low, opinions circling but never landing. Michael slipped away toward a smaller exhibit room, hoping to breathe.
She was standing alone in front of a print of his second piece.
Not studying it.
Waiting for it.
She was in her late twenties, maybe early thirties—hard to tell in the way of someone who had learned how to be still on purpose. Dark hair pulled back loosely, a long coat draped rather than worn. Her posture suggested patience sharpened into strategy.
"You're holding it wrong," she said, without turning.
Michael stopped short. "I'm sorry?"
She glanced over her shoulder, eyes sharp and amused. "The conversation. Everyone's holding it wrong. Like it's fragile."
She turned fully then, offering a hand. "I'm Mara."
He hesitated, then shook it. "Michael."
"I know."
That should have bothered him.
It didn't.
She looked back at the piece. "They keep asking what it means," she continued. "But that's not the interesting part."
"And what is?" Michael asked, cautious.
She smiled slightly. "What it allows."
That did bother him.
Mara wasn't an artist. She said that quickly, almost dismissively. She worked in communications—advocacy, messaging, narrative framing. She helped organizations explain themselves in ways that survived scrutiny.
"People don't change because they're convinced," she said as they walked outside into the cool evening air. "They change because they're given room to move without losing face."
Michael frowned. "That sounds like manipulation."
She didn't deny it. "It can be. Or it can be mercy."
They sat on a low concrete wall near the building, the city stretching out around them. Mara spoke easily, but there was intent in every word—like someone accustomed to shaping outcomes without appearing to touch them.
"I've been using your work," she said casually.
Michael's stomach tightened. "Using it how?"
"In presentations. Workshops. Closed rooms. I show it without context. Let people sit with it." She shrugged. "It lowers defenses. Makes people talk instead of posture."
"Talk about what?"
"Responsibility," she said. "Mostly about why they don't want it."
Michael was quiet for a long moment.
"That's… not what it's for," he said finally.
Mara tilted her head. "What is it for?"
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
She watched him with interest—not triumph.
"See?" she said gently. "Ambiguity is powerful. It gives people space. But space is leverage."
The word leverage echoed unpleasantly.
That night, Michael dreamed of the gallery again.
This time, Mara stood near the empty frame, speaking to the crowd. She never touched the art. She never lied. She simply guided the conversation, steering attention, redirecting interpretation.
The weight in his arms grew heavier.
When he woke, his phone was already buzzing.
An article had gone live profiling a "new wave" of ethical communicators using art to reshape dialogue. Mara was quoted—careful, articulate, persuasive.
Michael's work featured prominently.
He felt the pull immediately.
Not just attention.
Alignment.
In the Halls of Eternity, Kaelith leaned forward.
"There," he said. "That is the vector."
Nyxara frowned. "She's not wrong."
"No," Kaelith replied. "She's incomplete."
Varaek watched Mara's thread intersect with Michael's—not violently, not parasitically, but skillfully.
"She understands weight," Varaek said. "But she's learned how to redirect it."
Seraphel appeared beside him, arms crossed. "You're saying she's dangerous."
"I'm saying she's human," Varaek replied. "And ambitious."
Michael agreed to meet Mara again.
He told himself it was to clarify boundaries.
They met at a quiet bar, dim and nearly empty. Conversation flowed easily—too easily. Mara listened as much as she spoke, asked questions that made him think without cornering him.
"You're afraid of being misused," she said at one point.
"Yes."
"And afraid of being irrelevant if you retreat."
He nodded.
She took a sip of her drink. "Then maybe the question isn't whether ambiguity is dangerous."
He waited.
"Maybe it's who gets to carry it."
The words landed with unsettling precision.
Michael felt the weight shift—not leave, not lessen—but move.
For the first time since all of this began, he wasn't holding it alone.
That should have been a relief.
Instead, it terrified him.
Because he could feel how easily she bore it.
How naturally she understood how to spend it.
In the Halls, Kaelith closed his eyes briefly.
"This," he said, "is how it begins."
Varaek did not look away from the mortal plane.
"Yes," he agreed. "And this is why it cannot be stopped—only answered."
Below, Michael laughed at something Mara said, unaware that he had just met the first person who could truly walk beside him—
—or lead him somewhere he might not recognize until it was far too late