Fault Lines
The shift began quietly.
Not in the centralized districts.
In the decentralized ones.
Three outer districts—Low Ember, North Reach, and Hollow Span—submitted a joint proposal to temporarily adopt a hybrid authority model.
Not full centralization.
Not full forum governance.
A rotating executive council with limited emergency powers, subject to weekly ratification.
It was framed as adaptation.
Not imitation.
But the timing was unmistakable.
Seventh Terrace's narrow vote had exposed something.
Centralization worked.
But barely.
And that "barely" was powerful.
The proposal spread across the network within hours.
Blake reviewed it first.
"They're adjusting without copying," he said.
Iria scanned the language.
"They're trying to keep participation intact while borrowing efficiency."
"Is that dangerous?"
"No."
She paused.
"It's evolution."
By midday, debate ignited across the city.
Some decentralized leaders accused the proposal of creeping consolidation.
Some centralized advocates called it hesitant compromise.
But citizens—ordinary ones—engaged more than they had in weeks.
Forums overflowed.
Commentary surged.
Participation metrics climbed across both models.
The Comparative Transparency Index reflected something unexpected:
Efficiency remained highest in centralized districts.
But engagement was now highest in districts under active structural reconsideration.
Not under comfort.
Not under stability.
Under tension.
That evening, an incident struck Eighth Meridian.
A supply miscalculation—small but visible—caused a six-hour delay in water redistribution to two residential blocks.
Under decentralized governance, the error would have triggered immediate public scrutiny and correction proposals.
Under centralized governance, the oversight council handled it internally.
Corrected.
Resolved.
Bulletin posted.
No forum opened.
No public review session.
By nightfall, murmurs began.
"Why wasn't it discussed?"
"It was a minor error."
"Then why not show the process?"
The issue wasn't the delay.
It was opacity.
Not concealment.
But compression.
Blake stood at the edge of a late-night gathering where residents spoke in low, unsettled tones.
"This is what you feared," he said quietly when Iria joined him.
"Yes."
"They fixed it."
"Yes."
"But people feel removed."
"Yes."
Below them, a woman raised her voice—not angrily, but firmly.
"If we're delegating authority," she said, "then we need to see how it's used."
The oversight council responded quickly the next morning.
They opened a voluntary public review of the incident.
Transparent documentation.
Step-by-step correction timeline.
A Q&A forum scheduled.
The response was efficient.
And careful.
But something had shifted.
Centralized governance could not rely solely on results.
It required visible process.
In Seventh Terrace, the narrow 51 percent began expressing stronger oversight expectations.
In decentralized districts exploring hybrid models, attendance surged again.
Across the city, participation climbed to its highest point since Day Ten.
Not because people rejected centralization.
Because they were thinking again.
Late that night, Iria stood alone overlooking the layered cityscape.
Order and uneven light interwoven.
Blake approached silently.
"Is this fracture?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"No."
"Then what?"
"Fault lines," she said.
"Natural ones?"
"Yes."
He studied her profile.
"You don't seem afraid."
"I'm not."
"Why?"
She turned to him.
"Because fault lines don't mean collapse."
She looked back toward the city.
"They mean the ground is alive."
Below, debates continued—some sharp, some thoughtful.
Hybrid proposals refined.
Centralized councils adjusting tone.
Decentralized districts reconsidering efficiency.
No riots.
No breakdown.
But no complacency either.
The experiment had entered its most dangerous phase.
Not crisis.
Complexity.
And complexity, Iria knew,
Could not be controlled.
Only navigated.