The Measure of Time
Noctyrrh learned to count again.
Not in days—those had never mattered here—but in pauses. In the spaces between meetings, between words spoken and words held back. Time became something elastic, stretching under the strain of collective decision.
The Concord waited.
They did not pressure. They did not retreat. Their envoys attended public gatherings quietly, listening, offering clarification only when asked. They behaved like guests who knew they could outlast the host.
Iria found that more unsettling than force.
The want responded to waiting with impatience. It chafed, urging resolution, begging for an end to uncertainty. She felt it most when she walked alone through the city's upper tiers, where banners from the old regime still hung faded and frayed.
Power loved permanence.
She met with the council again—smaller this time. Tired faces. Ink-stained hands. No one pretended this was easy anymore.
"We're burning out," one councilor admitted. "People can't live in constant deliberation."
"I know," Iria said. "That's why time has to be part of the structure."
She proposed something new—not a decision about the Concord, but a decision about duration. A formal limit to the vigil. A date after which a vote would be taken, binding and public.
"Give time a shape," Kael murmured.
The motion passed.
Across the city, notice was posted: Seven Cycles Until Decision.
The response was immediate. Some people relaxed, relieved to see an end in sight. Others panicked, scrambling to persuade, to prepare, to secure outcomes before the clock ran out.
The want surged again—but now it was directional, focused.
Arguments sharpened. Alliances formed. The Remainders resurfaced, distributing pamphlets that warned of chaos without constraints. Trade guilds countered with promises of growth and security.
Iria moved through it all like a quiet axis, listening, asking questions, refusing to endorse either side.
At night, she dreamed of clocks with no hands, of borders that crept forward while she slept.
On the fifth cycle, Kael brought news from the outskirts. "Some settlements are voting early," he said. "Informally. Testing the waters."
"And?"
"They're split."
Iria nodded. "Good."
He frowned. "Good?"
"If they all agreed, I'd worry we weren't really choosing."
The want pulsed, uncertain but alert.
On the sixth cycle, Lumi found Iria on the council steps at rest-hour, watching people pass.
"You've changed how they think about time," Lumi said. "You made them wait."
"I made them see that waiting is also a choice."
"And you?" Lumi asked gently. "What do you choose?"
Iria didn't answer right away.
"I choose to trust them," she said at last. "Even if they choose something I wouldn't."
The seventh cycle dawned without fanfare.
The city held its breath—not for Iria's decision, not for the Concord's approval…
…but for its own.
And for the first time since the curse broke, time in Noctyrrh did not feel endless.
It felt measured.
Which meant it could be spent—
carefully, deliberately,
and together.