Ronan Crowe did not act immediately.
That restraint was the first warning.
Lyra felt it the way you feel a pressure change before a storm. The compound didn’t erupt. No alarms rang. No messengers ran breathless through the corridors.
Instead, everything went quiet.
Too quiet.
By dawn, the eastern corridor had been stabilized and not repaired. Stabilized. Ronan didn’t fix the flaw. He rerouted around it, tightening the system further, compressing authority into fewer hands.
His hands.
Tyler watched the adjustments come through, jaw set. “He’s not reacting anymore.”
Lyra nodded. “He’s deciding.”
“That’s worse.”
“Yes,” she said softly.
Because decisions didn’t invite negotiation.
The order came midmorning.
Not to Lyra.
To the council.
A formal notice, stamped and undeniable.
A
