The Arithmetic of Mercy
By the third morning, hunger had learned everyone's name.
It moved through the basin without sound, settling behind eyes, tightening voices, thinning patience. People still worked. Still recorded. Still shared. But the margins were gone.
Cassian counted quietly, lips moving as he recalculated routes and rations. "We are past stretching," he said at last. "Now we are choosing."
Lucien did not answer.
I nodded once. "Say it plainly."
"We have enough for two days," Cassian continued. "If distributed evenly. Or three if we prioritize the sick and the young."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "And the rest."
"And the rest," Cassian said, "will feel it."
Silence held.
This was not Stonecliff's force.
Not fear.
Not silence.
This was arithmetic.
A delegation arrived without ceremony. Farmers. Healers. Two guards who had not slept. They did not accuse. They asked a single question.
"Who goes first."
Lucien looked at me.
I looked at the ledger.
"Everyone," I said.
The healer frowned. "That is not possible."
"No," I replied. "But it is instructive."
Cassian inhaled sharply. "Explain."
"We will not create a hierarchy of worth," I said calmly. "We will create a sequence of need."
Lucien studied me. "That sounds like the same thing."
"It is not," I replied. "Worth invites power. Need invites care."
The farmer swallowed. "And who decides need."
"We do," I said. "Together. And we record why."
The room exhaled slowly.
They did not like it.
They accepted it.
By noon, the basin had reorganized itself.
Not by command.
By consent.
Healers assessed quietly.
Families disclosed needs they would have hidden a week ago.
Pride softened under hunger.
The ledger filled with entries that were not decisions of authority, but acknowledgments.
Need identified.
Reason stated.
Allocation agreed.
Stonecliff watched.
They always did.
Their response arrived before dusk.
A convoy appeared at the eastern ridge.
Not supplies.
Inspectors.
They set up barriers, slow and methodical, stopping traffic not to seize goods, but to measure. Count. Delay.
Lucien's fists clenched. "They are letting us starve with a ledger open."
"Yes," I replied. "So the page fills faster."
Cassian's voice was low. "If we reroute again, they will tighten."
"Yes," I said. "And if we do nothing."
"They win," Lucien finished.
The fifth presence brushed my awareness.
"This is where mercy becomes political," he said quietly. "Because scarcity forces selection."
"I know," I replied.
"And selection creates enemies."
"Yes."
A runner arrived breathless. "Greyreach requests guidance."
Lucien looked up sharply. "They still ask."
"Yes," I replied. "Which means they still trust."
The message was simple.
Greyreach had reserves. Enough to stabilize three regions. But sharing openly would expose them to retaliation. Sharing quietly would save lives now and be forgotten later.
"What do we tell them," Cassian asked.
I closed my eyes briefly.
Then opened them.
"Tell them the truth," I said.
Lucien frowned. "Which one."
"That either choice saves someone," I replied. "And either choice costs someone else."
Cassian swallowed. "That is not guidance."
"It is," I said. "Just not comfort."
The response came an hour later.
Greyreach would share openly.
They would publish routes, quantities, reasons.
No protection requested.
Lucien let out a slow breath. "They are brave."
"Yes," I said. "And tired of hiding."
Stonecliff reacted instantly.
Their inspectors doubled. Routes slowed further. Paperwork multiplied.
Cassian slammed his hand against the table. "They are punishing generosity."
"Yes," I replied. "Because generosity spreads."
Night fell hard.
Arguments flared and cooled. Decisions were made with trembling hands. Children cried less, adults more quietly.
I moved through the basin without escort, listening.
A woman offered half her ration to a stranger because the ledger had named need.
A guard skipped a meal because his shift ended near a fire.
A healer worked until her hands shook because stopping felt worse.
This was not unity.
It was friction.
Lucien found me near the outer stones. "They will break something soon," he said.
"Yes," I replied.
"And when they do," he continued, "people will look to you."
"Yes."
He studied my face. "And what will you give them."
I looked back toward the basin.
"Not certainty," I said. "Not safety."
He waited.
"Language," I finished. "To explain why we did not look away."
The fifth presence stepped closer, rainless night folding around him.
"You are teaching them to justify pain," he said quietly.
"No," I replied. "I am teaching them to see it."
A shout rose near the central fire.
Two men argued over a sack that had not yet been logged. Voices rose. Hunger sharpened edges.
I stepped between them.
"Record the conflict," I said.
They stared at me.
"Now," I repeated.
Cassian wrote as they spoke. Voices steadied as words became reasons.
The sack was split.
No one smiled.
But no one struck.
Stonecliff made its move at dawn.
Not a raid.
A seizure.
They claimed a depot beyond the basin, citing irregular documentation. Supplies vanished behind official seals.
Lucien swore under his breath. "They crossed."
"Yes," I replied. "And named themselves."
Cassian's voice shook. "We cannot replace that."
"No," I said. "But we can record it."
The ledger updated.
Supplies seized.
Authority claimed.
Reason contested.
Stonecliff's seal was etched beside the entry.
Public.
Visible.
Uncomfortable.
Messages flooded in.
Fear.
Anger.
Questions.
Lucien looked at me. "This will break some of them."
"Yes," I replied.
"And harden others."
"Yes."
He exhaled slowly. "Which do you need."
"Both," I said. "If this is real."
By midday, the basin stood thinner than it had ever been.
And still, people stayed.
They shared what they could.
They argued.
They recorded.
Greyreach's convoy arrived late and diminished, but it arrived.
Enough to steady one more day.
Stonecliff's inspectors watched it pass.
They did nothing.
Cassian whispered, "Why."
"Because they want the hunger to linger," I replied. "Not explode."
As evening settled, I felt the weight finally settle into something sharp and clear.
Mercy was no longer a feeling.
It was arithmetic.
Who eats.
Who waits.
Who records why.
This was the cost Stonecliff believed would undo us.
And it might.
But as I watched people choose transparency over hoarding, explanation over silence, I understood something that surprised me.
They were not staying because they believed this would succeed.
They were staying because they could explain themselves if it failed.
And that, in a world that had hidden behind hunger for generations, was a revolution Stonecliff could not starve quickly.
Night fell again.
Fires burned low.
The ledger glowed faintly.
Hungry.
Open.
Still telling the truth.
And tomorrow, we would count again.
Not because counting was fair.
But because pretending otherwise had already cost too much.