Pressure Points
Pressure revealed itself in patterns.
Iria began to recognize them the way one recognizes weather by the ache in old bones. The Concord did not push where resistance was loud. They pressed where doubt lingered, where exhaustion made compromise feel virtuous.
Hospitals first.
Funding arrived swiftly—clean linens, trained medics, efficient supply chains. No banners. No speeches. Just relief, delivered exactly where it would be hardest to refuse.
The want surged there, thick and emotional. Gratitude wrapped tightly around fear: If they leave, this will stop. If we object, we'll lose this.
Iria felt it like a bruise forming beneath her skin.
She visited one of the infirmaries in the southern quarter under the pretense of observation. The building smelled of herbs and soap, the halls brighter than they'd been in years. A Concord physician spoke gently to a local healer, their heads bent together in easy cooperation.
It looked good.
That was the problem.
Kael walked beside her, hands clasped behind his back. "They're creating dependencies that feel humane."
"They are humane," Iria said. "That's what makes this so effective."
In a ward near the back, a young man sat upright, color returning to his cheeks. He caught Iria's eye and smiled, grateful, unguarded.
The want there wasn't abstract. It was personal.
Iria had to look away.
Later, in the council hall, the Concord presented data—recovery rates, reduced mortality, improved distribution. All of it accurate. All of it persuasive.
Marrowin gestured to the figures. "This is what cooperation looks like."
Iria felt the room lean toward him.
She leaned forward instead.
"And what happens when cooperation ends?" she asked. "Do the supplies leave with you?"
A ripple of discomfort.
"They would be transitioned," Marrowin said carefully.
"To whom?"
"To capable local authorities."
"Defined how?"
A pause.
The want spiked—unease this time, threaded with irritation.
Blake shifted at the back of the room. Lumi's gaze was steady, unwavering.
Marrowin exhaled. "You're asking hypothetical questions."
"I'm asking structural ones," Iria replied. "You've identified our pressure points. Hospitals. Food routes. Borders. And you're reinforcing them—generously."
She let the word hang.
"Generosity," she continued, "that cannot be sustained independently becomes leverage."
The silence that followed was brittle.
After the session, Kael caught up with her in the corridor. "You hit a nerve."
"I know," Iria said. Her head ached faintly, a reminder that listening always cost something. "They're not villains."
"No," Kael agreed. "They're worse. They're correct."
She stopped walking. "What do you mean?"
"They can point to real improvements. Real lives saved. Real stability. And ask—reasonably—why anyone would object."
Iria closed her eyes briefly. The want pressed in, heavier now, laced with resentment.
"I object," she said, "to being helped in ways that make refusal feel immoral."
Kael studied her. "That's not an argument people like."
"I know."
That evening, Lumi found Iria on the western terrace again, staring out at the city lights.
"You're tired," Lumi said.
"Yes," Iria admitted. "And I'm angry. Which feels… ungrateful."
Lumi sat beside her. "Anger isn't ingratitude. It's a signal."
"Of what?"
"That something valuable is being touched without consent."
Iria exhaled slowly. Below them, the city pulsed with new efficiencies, new comforts. The Concord's presence had woven itself into daily life with astonishing speed.
Pressure points, all of them.
"They're going to force a choice," Iria said quietly. "Soon."
Lumi nodded. "Power always does."
Iria squared her shoulders, the ache behind her eyes sharpening into resolve.
"Then I need to find theirs," she said.
And in the open night, the want shifted—tightening, focusing—as if the realm itself understood that the balance was about to change.