Choice did not announce itself with banners or burn itself into law. It appeared in small, almost forgettable moments—when someone stayed instead of deferring, when someone spoke knowing it would not be echoed, when someone acted without the comfort of knowing how the story would frame them later.
In a border town that had learned to wait for permission, a miller reopened his gates without asking whether the road was officially safe. Grain moved. People ate. No proclamation followed.
In a council hall far from the plateau, a vote was taken with only half the seats filled. Those present knew it would be criticized. They voted anyway. The decision was imperfect. It held.
On the coast, the Rotten-Heart continued to work until their hands ached in ways strength could not prevent. When tempers flared, they stepped between without raising their voice. When others argued, they listened. When someone demanded they decide, they asked instead, "What will you stand by tomorrow?"
