Leverage
Iria discovered the Concord's weakness by accident.
It happened during a routine review session—one of the many meant to project transparency. The chamber was half-full, the mood subdued by familiarity. People no longer leaned forward in anticipation. They listened the way one listens to rain: passively, trusting it would pass.
Marrowin presented updates with practiced ease. Supply chains stable. Border incidents minimal. Public satisfaction rising.
Then a junior liaison spoke out of turn.
It was a small thing—a misquoted figure, corrected too quickly. But in that brief moment, Iria felt it.
Not want.
Fear.
It flickered through the Concord delegation like a shadow crossing a flame—sharp, contained, immediately suppressed. The want returned almost at once, smooth and reassuring, but the echo lingered.
Iria's pulse quickened.
She leaned back, listening—not to the words, but to the space between them.
The Concord's desire was not rooted here.
It flowed outward.
They wanted compliance, yes—but more than that, they wanted proof. Evidence that Noctyrrh could be shaped without resistance, that openness could be guided, curated, exported.
A model.
That was the leverage.
After the session, Iria sought Kael in the archives—a vast, dim space where old agreements slept in dust and shadow. He was already there, scanning a stack of treaties from border realms newly "assisted" by the Concord.
"You see it too," he said without looking up.
"They're afraid of failure," Iria replied. "Not here—but elsewhere."
Kael nodded. "Noctyrrh isn't the prize. It's the example."
Iria felt the want sharpen in response to the realization—not hers, but theirs. If this works, everything else follows.
"They can't afford dissent," she said. "Not publicly."
"No," Kael agreed. "Which means they can't crush it either."
The realization settled between them, dangerous and clarifying.
That evening, Iria requested a public forum.
Not a closed session. Not a negotiation. A citywide assembly—open questions, unscripted responses. Transparency, she called it.
The Concord agreed too quickly.
Lumi raised an eyebrow when Iria told her. "They think they can manage it."
"They think they have to," Iria said. "Refusing would look like fear."
Blake folded his arms. "And you plan to show them that fear?"
"I plan," Iria said, "to let people speak."
The forum filled the central square by nightfall. Lanterns glowed overhead, casting warm light over stone and faces alike. Concord banners hung at the edges, deliberately unobtrusive.
Iria stood at the center, heart pounding.
The want surged—nervous, hopeful, restless.
She raised her voice. "Ask," she said simply. "Anything."
At first, questions were careful. About trade. About medicine. About timelines.
The Concord answered smoothly.
Then a woman stepped forward, hands shaking. "What happens if we say no?"
The square went still.
Marrowin hesitated.
Just a breath. Just enough.
Iria felt it—the fear, flaring bright and unmistakable.
"We would be disappointed," he said carefully. "But we would respect your choice."
The want rippled—uncertain now, questioning.
"And the aid?" another voice called. "Would it stay?"
A longer pause.
Iria held her breath.
"We would need to reassess," Marrowin said.
The square murmured.
Reassess meant many things. None of them neutral.
Iria stepped forward. "Then let's be clear," she said. "Support that cannot survive refusal is not support. It's leverage."
The word landed hard.
The want fractured—relief colliding with fear, gratitude with suspicion.
Marrowin's smile did not return.
Later, as the crowd dispersed in low, urgent conversation, Kael exhaled slowly. "You made them blink."
"Not enough," Iria said. Her head throbbed, the cost of listening pressing in. "But now everyone knows they can."
Lumi approached, pride and concern warring in her expression. "This will escalate."
"Yes," Iria replied. "But now it has to."
She looked back at the Concord banners, at how carefully they framed the square without ever taking its center.
Leverage only worked as long as it was invisible.
Tonight, it had been named.
And power, once named, never quite worked the same again.