Kael first noticed Lysa because she didn't applaud.
The council chamber had just finished another session—three hours of calm voices, revised motions, and carefully worded compromises. When it ended, most people clapped lightly, relieved that something—anything—had concluded.
Lysa remained seated.
She was older than Kael by at least a decade, her dark hair pulled back loosely, sleeves rolled up like someone who expected work to continue after talk ended. She didn't look disappointed or impressed.
She looked… curious.
As people filtered out, Kael gathered his notes, already planning to leave quietly as usual. That was when her voice stopped him.
"You framed the flood proposal backward."
The words weren't loud, but they carried.
Kael turned. "Backward?"
"You started with efficiency," Lysa said, standing now. "Everyone else started with fairness. That's why they followed you without realizing it."
Several council members slowed their steps, suddenly interested.
Kael met her eyes. Sharp. Measuring. Unafraid.
"I only suggested what would work fastest," he replied.
Lysa smiled faintly. "That's never only a suggestion."
Councilor Renald cleared his throat. "Lysa, the decision's already—"
"I know," she interrupted calmly. "That's why it matters how it was reached."
She turned back to Kael. "What's your name?"
"Kael."
That earned a pause.
Not a dramatic one—but a real one. Lysa tilted her head slightly, studying him with renewed attention.
"Unfortunate," she said.
A few people laughed nervously.
Kael didn't. "So I've been told."
They walked together out of the chamber, not side by side, but not apart either—two trajectories briefly aligned.
"You know what they'll say about this later?" Lysa asked.
"That the council reached a consensus?" Kael replied.
"That the council felt relieved," she corrected. "Which is worse."
Kael considered that. "Relief keeps people calm."
"It also makes them careless about who provided it."
They stopped at the steps outside. The city stretched before them—quiet, orderly, unresolved.
Lysa folded her arms. "You're too young to be doing this unintentionally."
Kael met her gaze evenly. "And you're too observant to be warning me if you don't see the value."
That made her laugh. Not kindly. Not cruelly.
"Be careful," she said. "Centuries ago, a man with your name changed the world by refusing to rule it."
"I know," Kael replied.
Her smile faded. "Then understand this: the world never forgives the second one."
She turned and left before he could answer.
Kael stood alone on the steps, watching people disperse—each of them lighter now, freed from deciding.
Behind him, inside dormant archives and forgotten code, old logic stirred faintly.
No authority is final.
Kael exhaled slowly.
"Then I won't make it obvious," he said to no one at all.
And somewhere in the city, Lysa walked away with the uncomfortable certainty that she had just witnessed the beginning of something the world had promised itself would never happen again.