Pella Rook sat on the damp granite doorstep of the return water chute, her hands resting flat on the shaking bronze rim. She didn’t kneel as a priestess. She didn’t invoke academy power. She spoke across the water as a workshop coordinator negotiating with a master rigger.
‘Senn,’ Pella spoke aloud into the churning mist. ‘We’re opening the Ferry Turning Basin. Forty acres of cool marshland are ready to swallow twelve thousand cubic feet of your surge. But we can’t handle the peak crest without your help at the intake. We need ninety minutes of controlled flow while our crews set the ash shores.’
The swirling cobalt soft glow rose from the bronze collar, hovering three feet above the water. A soft, cool draft brushed Pella’s wet forehead, carrying the scent of wild water-mint and wet stone.
‘If you guide the water for ninety minutes,’ Pella promised, ‘the third gate will remain twenty percent open to let you breathe. You won’t be asked to fight as a royal champion. You won’t be asked to hold the river indefinitely. And when the ninety minutes turn, we will speak your release word and cut the bronze collar, whether the Senate approves or not. If you tire before the shift ends, pull your current back and we will take the load with the ash cradles.’
