They called it governance when they forgave me at a distance. They called it cruelty when they felt it near. Names are small things; the work is harder.
The zealots had a liturgy for everything now. They chewed the syllables of the Covenant until the words softened into habit. Maru had the look of a preacher who'd discovered numbers; his charm was a currency, and he spent it with elaborate thrift. He could make a man hand over his blanket like a confession. He could make a woman kneel and whisper, believing she'd bought another morning. He could make the frightened do anything so long as the ritual smelled of order.
I watched him from the ridge above the tunnel as he directed the faithful to sort the scavenged tins, to mend nets, to seal gaps in the outer ring. They moved like a hive with Maru as its nervous center. Useful, I thought. Dangerous, I thought. Necessary, I thought—because necessity must be counted.
I came down into the courtyard at noon. The sun was a bruised coin caught behind smoke. The zealots welcomed me like a theater troupe greeting a benefactor; their smiles were practiced. A dozen faces turned, full of debt and gratitude, and I felt the rune in my arm hum like a satisfied animal.
Maru stepped forward, hands folded like a supplicant. "Vessel," he intoned, "the people brought the work we asked. They bind the wall with old girders. They took the watch. We give thanks that the flame walks with us."
He used the ritual's words as glue. He had taught them to call me "vessel" and to say the words that made the rune sing in a different pitch. Belief changes chemistry. It really did.
"Good," I said. I did not like the name. I let the people use it anyway; names were cheap caloric intake for the needy. "Keep it organized. The watch rotates every four hours. The weak take less duty—they earn three meals a day for their work. If anyone tries to skip, they lose a ration."
Maru's pupils pinched. "And if someone refuses?"
"We remove their privilege," I said. "They go to the outer ring to sleep. They're not killed for refusing; they are given weight."
His grin cracked a fraction. "Mercy, then."
I moved among them, listening. The boy who had given me the bone carving last moon circled at a careful distance, eyes bright with worship and fear in equal measure. He caught my reflection in the shard I'd used to mirror my face the first time I'd felt the rune answer; he bowed even when he thought I wouldn't see. I let him. I wanted to know what being small tasted like to him.
Juro came up from behind, quiet enough to be almost a shadow. His bandage was newly changed; the cloth smelled like iron and old prayers. He carried his ledger now in a jacket pocket, and he tended to it as if it were a wounded animal. When he opened it, his notes were clinical and precise: names, a short line about their last offering, a small mark about whether they'd risen to a watch. He had started counting not to judge but to remember. The difference was subtle and mortal.
"You're making them useful," Juro said, the gravel of his voice low.
"Yes," I agreed. "And we'll keep them alive longer if they are useful. That's governance."
He spat a small sound that could have been a laugh or a stone hitting soft earth. "You dress it in numbers. That doesn't change the blood."
"You bore the wound that proves it," I said. "Better a man who remembers than a man who forgets and calls it virtue."
He looked at me then, the single eye catching the light like a cut plate of metal. "You think you can steer doctrine. You think you can redirect the hunger. You can't. It spreads. Belief is contagious. And contagion likes proximity."
"And you will keep the ledger." My voice was careful. "You will write who grows sick, who yields, who disappears. Keep the record. The memory is all we have once history consumes the living."
"You use memory as a threat," he said. "I will use it as a weapon."
We both knew what that meant and let the silence hold it. He made lists; I made decisions. Between us the survivors counted out their days. Between us they would be saved or counted.
—
The doctrine needed two alchemies to be useful. The first was mundane: rotate watch, ration work, assign tasks to those whose trust had not yet curdled. Make those who would otherwise idle feel like their hands were part of the city's engine rather than mere appendages swinging in panic. Give the small to the small tasks—the mending, the carrying. In return, give measured reward: a bowl of soup, a blanketed hour. Ritual as economics. Ritual as labor policy. It worked. The zealots organized the labor, and the city's needs were met.
The second alchemy was darker: ritualized sacrifice that produced something for the curse—something the rune answered. The believers already performed "passings" when pressed by marrow-deep poverty; I only formalized what hunger had invented haphazardly. I advised Maru, in voice low and neutral, not to binge on spectacle. The thing must be slow. Slow rolls the mind into acceptance. The doctrine needed to be so gentle that a man handed over his only shoes as an act of devotion and thought he had earned it rather than been robbed.
Maru listened with greedy discipline. He took my commands like a man thirsty for instruction. He had zeal but not strategy; I provided cadence and direction. He had hunger but no scale; I gave him measures.
The first controlled "Passing" I permitted was small and surgical. A woman—Mika, a former nurse—had an infection in her calf that would get worse with the cold. She had been valuable: she could bind wounds, teach bandaging. The zealots wanted to reward her for past service; Maru wanted to test doctrine's elasticity.
"Offer her work twice the day," I instructed Maru. "She'll give supplies. Put her on clean duty. She will be seen. If she refuses, do not shame her publicly. Let the doctrine move with a whisper."
Maru nodded and brought her a bowl. She ate ravenously. At dusk, a dedicated watch was assigned and she mended hundreds of men's hands. She thanked Maru. She thanked me—both together, because in her tired mind we were the same axis: comforters and wardens. The ritual feed came not only in blood but in the quiet joy of being useful. That is the first poison: make them crave the ritual's attention.
I watched the nurse stitch, hands deft because she needed to keep working, because work kept her from thinking dangerous things. When the hour passed, when the others ate, I let the watch stay a moment longer. Then I had Maru tell her: "The vessel demands concordance. To remain at the watch you must forgo the next bowl." It was technical. It was legalistic. It sounded like administration. She argued, then eventually agreed, worn thin, believing that small pain kept the group whole.
And it did. But the next moon, when a fever struck and the nurse could not keep the watch, her refusal would be read as fracture and not fate. Doctrine rearranges moral calculus until the only moral thing left is obedience.
I had no illusions about my hands. I did what rulers do: align incentives until behavior matches need. The zealots made the mechanics pretty. I made them strict. The result was an organized set of micro-sacrifices that bought a day, then another. The people slept a little longer. They woke a little hungrier. They kept moving.
—
Not everyone surrendered quietly. Some resisted in small, private ways. A fisherman, Hoji, refused to hand over his net. He'd said it was how he fed his neighbor's child. Three nights later, his neighbor's child was gone and Hoji's net lay untouched. The zealots sweet-talked, then cold-shouldered, then left him outside during the fifth watch. A cold kills faster than a blade when you are exhausted and alone.
Juro recorded it. He tapped his pen in my ear with the small click of a metronome. Names, dates, reasons, and a line: forced absence. He placed a tiny cross next to it. I did not like the cross. Crosses are small judgments that eventually become lists to execute. He meant for me to see it. He meant for me to feel the ledger like a presence.
I felt it. I felt a little honest heat of annoyance and something else—an odd, uncomfortable pride: if memory grows, then consequence may follow. He wanted to brand me. I wanted to be effective. Both motives are selfish. Both matter.