Mara didn't push all at once.
That was the first thing Michael noticed.
If she had come at him aggressively—demanding statements, attaching his name to causes—he would have recoiled. He was still raw from the backlash, still unsure whether continuing to draw was courage or stubbornness masquerading as principle.
Instead, Mara framed everything as inevitable.
They met again a week later, this time at Michael's apartment. He hadn't planned to invite her up; it simply happened, like most things did around her. She arrived with takeout and an armful of printed articles, no phone in sight.
"I brought receipts," she said lightly, setting the papers on his small kitchen table.
Michael eyed the stack warily. "That's never a good sentence."
She smiled. "It's not bad."
They ate first. Mara respected silences, which made them feel intentional rather than awkward. Only after the food was half gone did she slide one of the articles toward him.
The headline read:
ART OR AGENDA? THE MORAL DANGER OF AMBIGUITY
Michael exhaled slowly. "I saw that one."
"Did you read it?"
"Yes."
"Did you read the comments?"
"No."
"Good," she said. "I did."
She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. "They're not confused anymore, Michael. They're deciding."
"Deciding what?"
"Who you are."
He felt that familiar tightening in his chest. "I didn't ask for that."
"I know," Mara said. "But you created something that doesn't stay still. People don't like that. So they'll pin it down for you."
Michael pushed the article aside. "I don't want to be a symbol. Or a spokesperson. I just want to draw."
Mara studied him carefully. "That's your stance?"
He frowned. "No, it's the absence of one."
She shook her head gently. "There's no such thing anymore. Not for you."
She didn't ask him to release a statement.
Instead, she asked him questions.
"What do you think responsibility looks like," she asked one evening, while he sketched at his desk and she sat cross-legged on the floor, watching without interrupting.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "Knowing when to stop?"
"And if stopping causes harm?"
He hesitated.
"What if silence lets someone else define the thing you made?" she pressed.
"I didn't make it for them."
"But you made it you did," she replied. "That counts."
She never framed it as ideology. She framed it as authorship.
"You already altered people," she said. "The question is whether you'll pretend that didn't happen."
Michael hated how reasonable it sounded.
The invitation came two days later.
A roundtable discussion. Art, ethics, and interpretation. Livestreamed, but "intimate." Carefully curated participants. No shouting, no ambushes.
Mara showed him the email without comment.
Michael stared at the screen. "You arranged this."
"I suggested you," she corrected. "They asked."
"And if I say no?"
She shrugged. "Someone else will fill the space you leave."
That landed harder than she intended—or maybe exactly as intended.
"Why do you care so much?" he asked.
Mara didn't answer immediately. She stood and walked to the window, looking out at the city lights.
"Because ambiguity doesn't stay neutral," she said finally. "It either collapses into dogma… or it teaches people how to sit with uncertainty."
She turned back to him. "You're one of the few people who can make the second option possible."
Michael swallowed. "That sounds like responsibility."
"Yes."
"I never wanted that."
"I know," she said softly. "No one who should have it ever does."
That night, Michael dreamed again.
He was sketching, but every line turned into words. Headlines. Opinions. Interpretations he hadn't intended. He tried to erase them, but the graphite only smeared, darkening the page.
Behind him, someone stood—silent, patient.
Not Mara.
Varaek.
Not in full form, not imposing—just present, like gravity you only notice when it shifts.
You are being asked to define yourself, Varaek said, without sound.
Be careful what shape you choose.
Michael woke with his heart racing.
The roundtable went live on a Thursday evening.
Michael sat under soft lights, hands folded, trying to keep his breathing steady. Mara sat off-camera, visible only to him, calm as ever.
The questions were thoughtful. Measured. Almost kind.
"What responsibility does an artist have once their work enters public discourse?"
Michael hesitated.
He could feel the weight settle—not crushing, not sharp—but insistent.
"I think," he said slowly, "that responsibility starts with honesty. Not about what the work means—but about what it does."
Mara's eyes sharpened slightly.
"And if it does harm?" the moderator asked.
"Then pretending it doesn't isn't neutrality," Michael replied. "It's avoidance."
The words surprised him as much as anyone.
Online, the response was immediate.
Clips spread. Quotes detached from context. Praise and condemnation blooming side by side.
But something else happened too.
People stopped asking him what the sketch meant.
They started asking what they felt.
In the Halls of Eternity, Kaelith watched the thread tighten.
"He's choosing," Kaelith said. "That narrows the field."
Nyxara tilted her head. "Or clarifies it."
Varaek observed the way Mara's influence braided with Michael's emerging gravity.
"She is accelerating him," Varaek said.
Seraphel grinned. "Or teaching him how to walk."
Kaelith's expression darkened. "Or how to justify impact without understanding consequence."
After the broadcast, Michael felt hollowed out and electric all at once.
Mara met him outside the studio, smiling—not triumphant, but satisfied.
"You did well," she said.
"I don't know if that was me," Michael replied.
She studied him. "It was the part of you that's been there since the first sketch."
He looked at her. "And now?"
"Now people will expect consistency," she said. "They'll look to you when things get messy."
He laughed weakly. "That sounds like a trap."
"It is," she agreed. "But it's also influence."
They stood there in the cooling night air, the city humming around them.
Michael realized something then—quietly, uncomfortably.
Mara wasn't dragging him forward.
She was walking just ahead, clearing the path, trusting that he would follow.
And part of him—some deep, unnamed part—already was.