The Cost of Practice
The coordination network began as an idea.
It became exhausting.
Without fixed seats or centralized authority, every decision required participation. Observations about the returning light had to be logged publicly. Districts compared patterns. Farmers argued with merchants about timing. Patrol leaders revised routes weekly instead of quarterly.
It was slower.
It was frustrating.
It was working.
For a while.
The first real strain came when the light lingered nearly half a cycle longer than expected. Crops in two outer districts failed to adjust. Sleep disruptions increased accidents in the mid-tier workshops. Tempers thinned.
The complaints did not target a ruler.
They targeted the process.
"This is inefficient," a merchant snapped during an open session. "If we had a centralized council, we could standardize response."
A murmur of agreement followed.
Iria stood along the wall, arms folded. She did not speak.
The network coordinators—rotating, visible, accountable—looked exhausted. They had volunteered for temporary facilitation. Temporary was stretching.
One of them, a former patrol captain, rubbed his eyes before addressing the room.
"You're right," he said plainly. "This is slower."
That caught people off guard.
"We're not optimizing for speed," he continued. "We're optimizing for resilience."
"Resilience doesn't feed people," someone shot back.
"No," he agreed. "But dependency doesn't either."
The room tightened.
The want flickered—uneasy, pulled between relief and discipline.
Iria felt it too. The temptation to step in, to clarify language, to prevent the conversation from hardening into camps.
But this was the cost of practice.
If Noctyrrh was going to remain distributed, it would need endurance—not inspiration.
That night, she walked the outer district where crop adjustments had failed. Lanterns burned low. Farmers spoke in hushed frustration.
A young man recognized her.
"You built this system," he said—not accusing, not grateful. Just tired. "Is it worth it?"
She considered him carefully.
"Ask me again in a year," she replied.
"That doesn't help now."
"No," she agreed. "It doesn't."
He studied her, searching for a directive, a promise, a correction.
She offered none.
Instead, she asked, "What do you need tonight?"
He hesitated. Then: "Short-term coordination. Not permanent."
"That's reasonable," she said.
The next morning, the network issued its first emergency compression protocol—temporary centralized coordination for crop recalibration only. Clear scope. Clear duration. Automatic expiration.
It passed quickly.
It worked.
And when the deadline arrived, it dissolved.
No vote to extend. No pressure to maintain.
It ended because it had been designed to end.
That was new.
By evening, the city felt steadier—not because it had avoided centralization entirely, but because it had practiced using it without clinging to it.
On the rooftop, Kael joined Iria beneath a sky that now carried longer veins of gold.
"They're tired," he said.
"Yes."
"So are you."
She smiled faintly. "That's different."
"How?"
"They're tired from carrying something. I'm tired from not."
He leaned beside her. "You could still take more of it."
"Yes," she said softly. "But then they wouldn't."
Below them, Noctyrrh moved—not elegantly, not effortlessly.
Deliberately.
The want flowed through the streets like a current that no longer sought a single vessel. It pooled where needed, receded when released.
Practice had a cost.
Time. Patience. Friction.
But unlike fear, it built strength instead of surrender.
And as the light stretched further across the horizon, the city did not rush to master it.
It learned.
Slowly.
Together.