The First Secession
It began with a petition.
Not rebellion.
Not outrage.
A formal document submitted through the coordination network by the Seventh Terrace District.
Proposal: Temporary centralized governance within district boundaries for a ninety-day daylight adaptation period.
The language was precise.
Measured.
Careful not to sound like surrender.
They cited heat mismanagement, scheduling breakdowns, and economic strain. Participation fatigue had deepened there more than anywhere else. Their public forums had thinned. Fewer volunteers. More unresolved motions.
"We are not rejecting the network," the petition read. "We are requesting structured leadership to stabilize during transition."
The word spread quickly.
Secession.
Though technically, it wasn't.
The system allowed district-level experimentation. That had always been part of its design. Autonomy included the freedom to choose structure.
That was the risk.
In the central hall, debate ignited.
"If they consolidate, others will follow," someone warned.
"Or they'll prove it unnecessary," another countered.
Blake stood near the back wall, arms crossed, watching Iria.
She did not speak immediately.
She read the petition twice.
The Preservationist negotiator stepped forward. "This is what flexibility looks like," he said calmly. "Choice."
"Choice under pressure," a mediator snapped.
"Still choice."
All eyes shifted to Iria.
This was the moment.
If she denounced it, she would contradict everything she'd built.
If she endorsed it too warmly, she would accelerate fragmentation.
She stepped forward slowly.
"The network does not exist to prevent decisions," she said evenly. "It exists to allow them."
Murmurs rippled.
"The Seventh Terrace District has the right to test centralized governance within its borders," she continued. "But the terms must be clear."
She turned toward the district delegates.
"Define authority limits. Define expiration. Define transparency measures. And define what triggers automatic dissolution."
The delegate hesitated. "Automatic?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because power rarely volunteers to end itself."
Silence.
Then nods.
The negotiator studied her carefully. "You're confident this won't spread."
"No," she said plainly. "I'm confident that suppressing it would."
That answer unsettled everyone.
Including Blake.
By evening, the terms were drafted:
A three-person oversight council elected by district vote.
Mandated public reporting twice weekly.
Emergency authority restricted to daylight adaptation measures only.
Automatic dissolution after ninety days unless reaffirmed by a two-thirds district majority.
The network ratified the experiment.
Not unanimously.
But decisively.
When the vote concluded, the hall did not erupt.
It felt… fragile.
Outside, the Seventh Terrace District moved quickly. Schedules reorganized overnight. Centralized logistics rerouted supply lines. Heat management structures were erected faster than anywhere else.
Efficiency sharpened almost immediately.
Other districts noticed.
"They're stabilizing faster," someone observed at a market stall.
"They're decisive," another added.
The want shifted again—not toward fear this time.
Toward relief.
Relief was seductive.
That night, Blake joined Iria along the mid-terrace overlooking the Seventh District's lit towers.
"You let them go," he said quietly.
"They're still part of us."
"But they stepped away."
She nodded.
"If decentralization is real," she said, "it must survive choice."
"And if their model works better?"
She met his gaze.
"Then we adapt."
It wasn't stubbornness.
It was principle.
Below them, the Seventh Terrace's new oversight council began issuing directives with crisp precision. Adjustments moved swiftly. Confusion lessened.
The city watched.
Not divided yet.
But measuring.
The first secession was not an act of rebellion.
It was an experiment.
And experiments, Iria knew, did not just test systems.
They tested faith.