William received the briefing at five in the morning.
He had not slept.
He rarely did anymore.
The capital’s emergency operations center existed in permanent half-light, rows of analysts staring at screens that never went dark. Coffee machines ran without pause. Nobody joked. Nobody lingered.
A junior officer placed a file on his desk.
“Border Province Twelve,” she said. “Civil unrest. Anti-awakener movement. Three days now.”
William opened it.
Protests.
Then riots.
Then barricades.
Private security refusing intervention.
Local authorities overwhelmed.
Rumors spreading.
Protected parasites.
Favored mutants.
Government pets.
Three facilities attacked.
Two support staff dead.
One low-rank awakener beaten into critical condition.
William closed the file.
“When does it collapse?” he asked.
“Forty-eight hours,” the officer replied. “Maybe less.”
He nodded.
“Media projections,” he said.
Minutes later, the charts filled his screen.
Public sentiment was sliding fast.
Fear turning into resentment.
Resentment turning into permission.
They were looking for someone to blame.
And they had found someone convenient.
The political council met at eight.
It was smaller now.
Fewer seats.
More corporate representatives.
A visible shift in gravity.
“The province is unstable,” a minister said. “If it falls, others will follow.”
“We deploy forces,” a general offered.
“They’ll be seen as occupiers,” someone countered.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“Sanctions?” another suggested.
“Too slow.”
They argued.
William listened.
Then spoke.
“Send Elira.”
Silence.
Several people stared at him.
One woman frowned. “You mean…”
“A public visit,” William said. “Relief tour. Media presence. Direct engagement.”
“You want to use her as a symbol,” she said flatly.
“Yes,” William replied.
No evasion.
Someone cleared their throat.
“She isn’t trained for politics.”
“She doesn’t need to be,” William said. “She’s trusted.”
A finance official nodded. “Markets will stabilize.”
A security advisor added, “It discourages extremists.”
Agreement spread.
Too quickly.
William felt something tighten inside his chest.
After the meeting, he sat alone for several minutes.
Staring out at the city.
Then activated a private channel.
“Elira.”
She answered from a training hall, hair damp with sweat.
“Yes?”
“There’s unrest in Province Twelve,” he said. “Violence. Targeting awakened.”
“I know,” she replied. “I saw.”
“I want you to go.”
She blinked.
“Go?”
“Publicly,” he clarified. “With cameras. Officials. Show them you’re not their enemy.”
Her expression shifted.
“You want me to be proof,” she said.
William hesitated.
“Yes.”
Silence.
“I’m not comfortable with that,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“I’m not a banner,” she continued. “I’m not a—”
“I know,” William said, sharper than intended.
He exhaled.
“People are getting hurt,” he said. “If this spreads, it will be worse.”
“So I stand in front of it,” she said.
“Yes.”
“So they don’t hurt others.”
“Yes.”
“And if they hurt me?”
William paused.
“…I’ll make sure they regret it.”
She looked away.
“That’s not an answer.”
They met later.
In a secure room.
No cameras.
No aides.
Just them.
“You’re asking me to lie,” Elira said.
“No,” William replied. “To represent.”
“Represent what?” she asked. “A system that keeps failing people?”
He flinched.
“I’m asking you to help me hold it together.”
She studied him.
“You’re exhausted,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You’re afraid.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re using me anyway.”
William closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
The announcement went public that evening.
Headlines exploded.
Elira to Address Unrest
S Plus Guardian Visits Province
Hope Arrives
Security escalated.
Contractors.
Local forces.
Media caravans.
Everything polished.
Everything staged.
The province was worse than reported.
Burned vehicles.
Graffiti: AWAKENED OUT
Barricades.
Hostile stares.
Elira felt it immediately.
Hatred held together by exhaustion.
They led her to a temporary platform.
William stood nearby.
She stepped forward.
The crowd roared.
Not cheers.
Anger.
“You live in towers while we starve!”
“Where were you when my brother died?”
“You’re not human!”
Her heart raced.
She raised her hand.
Silence crept in slowly.
“I’m here,” she said, “because people are hurting.”
A bottle flew.
It shattered near her feet.
She did not move.
“I’m not better than you,” she said. “I’m just… different.”
Boos.
Then scattered applause.
She kept going.
About fear.
About mistakes.
About loss.
No scripts.
No slogans.
Just honesty.
More than anyone wanted.
That night, in the transport, Elira stared out the window.
William watched her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She didn’t look at him.
“I did it,” she said. “Did it work?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Markets stabilized. Protests are fading.”
“Good,” she said.
Then quietly:
“So I’m useful.”
The word cut deeper than anger.
Later, in his office, William replayed the broadcast.
Her standing there.
Unshielded.
Carrying what institutions could not.
He shut it off.
His hands trembled.
“This isn’t what I wanted,” he whispered.
But he had done it anyway.
Because power never asked permission.
It only demanded sacrifices.
And tonight, he had chosen her.
In Abyss, Tancred watched the footage.
His jaw tightened.
“They’re burning her,” he said.
Xior remained silent.
“Yes,” he replied.
“And she doesn’t know it yet.”
