Clean Lines
The results came quickly.
Too quickly.
Within two weeks, the Seventh Terrace District reported measurable improvements across nearly every adaptation metric. Heat redistribution panels were installed ahead of schedule. Crop rotation schedules adjusted cleanly. Supply rerouting shaved nearly two bells off distribution delays.
Public bulletins were posted twice weekly, just as mandated.
Concise. Ordered. Efficient.
Where other districts still debated insulation materials and labor allocation frameworks, the Seventh issued directives and moved.
The numbers were undeniable.
Crime in transitional hours dropped by nearly half within their borders. Market stabilization improved. Sleep disruption complaints decreased due to standardized rest rotations.
It was hard to argue with outcomes.
In the central hall, data projections glowed across stone walls while representatives murmured in low tones.
"They're outperforming us," someone said flatly.
"Under controlled conditions," a mediator replied.
"But outperforming."
The Preservationist negotiator did not gloat. He didn't need to.
He simply gestured toward the figures.
"Structure reduces friction," he said calmly. "When responsibility is clear, action accelerates."
Iria studied the data without expression.
"Participation levels?" she asked.
A clerk hesitated before answering. "Public forum attendance has decreased by thirty percent within Seventh Terrace."
"Because issues are being resolved," the negotiator said smoothly.
"Or because fewer people feel required," Iria countered.
He met her gaze evenly. "Is participation valuable if it delays stability?"
The question lingered.
Outside the hall, the city's tone shifted.
Merchants began asking whether their districts could request similar trials. Farmers whispered about consolidated planning advantages. Even some coordinators privately admitted relief at the idea of fewer layered approvals.
Relief.
It moved like a quiet current beneath the surface of debate.
Blake found Iria later reviewing reports alone.
"You're not surprised," he observed.
"No."
"Concerned?"
"Yes."
He leaned against the stone railing, sunlight tracing sharp lines across his shoulders.
"They're proving your system can coexist with theirs," he said.
"For now."
He tilted his head. "You think it won't."
She exhaled slowly.
"Centralized efficiency is strongest at first," she said. "It eliminates hesitation. Compresses deliberation. Simplifies responsibility."
"And that's bad?"
"No." She looked at him directly. "It's powerful."
Power had never been the enemy.
Dependency was.
A courier interrupted with fresh data—economic growth projections within Seventh Terrace rising faster than neighboring districts.
Blake read the summary and let out a quiet breath. "People are going to follow this."
"Yes."
"Are you going to stop them?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Through the window, she could see Seventh Terrace's towers—cleaner lines, faster construction, smoother rhythm.
Attractive.
Order always was.
"No," she said at last.
He studied her carefully.
"You're letting it spread."
"I'm letting it reveal itself."
That night, another district formally requested a similar ninety-day trial.
The vote would take place at dawn.
The city no longer felt fragile.
It felt divided.
Not violently.
Ideologically.
Between those who preferred the discipline of clear command—
And those who believed responsibility was worth the burden.
As the light faded into a softer dusk, Iria stood alone on the highest terrace and watched the Seventh District glow with organized precision.
It looked stable.
It looked safe.
It looked like something she once knew very well.
And somewhere beneath her ribs, something tightened.
Not fear.
Recognition.