She came at the second hour.

Lysander was at the table with the stylus callus aching — he had been writing since the first hour, the response to the third Carian timber contact and two coastal watch updates and the supply projection that Hector had asked for. His right hand was slower than usual. He switched to his left for the last paragraph and found that his left hand, which had been running the sword grip every morning for two years, was steadier than he expected.

’Interesting,’ he thought. ’I have apparently been training my left hand without intending to.’

He looked at what his left hand had written. The letters were rougher but the pressure was consistent.

Arsini knocked — her knock, two soft taps — and came in.

She sat across from him. She had three tablets and the expression she had when something had been getting worse for several days and had reached the point where it needed to be said.

"The shared sessions," she said.

He set the stylus down.

"Tell me."

"Four families withdrew their children this week. Troy-born families. The eastern school and two at the harbor school." She set one of the tablets on the table. "I spoke to two of the families. Both said the same thing in different words."

"What words."

"One said: the schools were for our children. The other said: I do not know these people and I do not know what they are teaching my son." She looked at the tablet. "Both said it politely. Without anger. That is what concerns me more than anger would."

"Why."

"Anger is specific. This is not anger. This is a general feeling that something they understood has changed in a way they did not consent to."

"And more families feel it."

"I have received three more inquiries this week. Polite. Asking about the nature of the shared sessions. What curriculum is being taught. Who the teachers are." She looked at him. "They are not wrong to ask. The questions are reasonable. The feeling underneath the questions is what I am concerned about."

"What is the feeling."

"That the city they knew is being replaced by something they did not choose. And that the schools — which were built for their children, which they trusted — are part of the replacement."

Lysander sat back.

’They are not wrong,’ he thought. ’The city they knew is being replaced. It has been being replaced since the first displaced family arrived. It will continue to be replaced. The question is not whether the replacement happens but whether the people being replaced have any say in the shape of it.’

’The schools were built for Troy. And Troy is larger than it was when the schools were built.’

"What do you want to do," he said.

Arsini looked at him.

"I know what I want to do," she said. "I want to hear what you think first."

He looked at her.

’She knows the answer,’ he thought. ’She has known it since she came in. She is checking whether we are thinking the same thing. Not asking for guidance — checking for alignment.’

"The families who withdrew," he said. "What do they want for their children."

"Good teachers. A safe environment. Skills that produce futures."

"And the settlement families."

"The same."

"Are they getting it."

"Yes. The session records show no significant difference in outcomes between the two groups." She paused. "Rea is slightly ahead of every child in her age cohort regardless of origin. The Troy-born families do not know this."

"Tell them."

"Yes."

"Not as an argument. As information. The session records are a palace document. They are available to any family whose child attends. Make that availability visible."

"Yes."

"And the families who withdrew."

"Invite them to observe," he said. "Not to a meeting. To a session. Let them sit at the back and watch for an hour. Let them see Deia teach."

Arsini was quiet for a moment.

"Deia," she said.

"A twelve-year-old girl teaching multiplication to eight children of three different origins. No one who watches that for an hour leaves thinking the school has been taken from them."

"No," Arsini said. "They leave thinking the school has become something more than it was."

"Yes."

She made a note.

"The three families who sent inquiries," she said.

"Same invitation. Before they decide to withdraw."

"Yes." She looked at her notes. "There is one more thing."

"Tell me."

"The families that withdrew — two of them are connected to the same social cluster in the eastern district. Three of the families who sent inquiries are in the same cluster." She looked up. "If the two families who withdrew begin telling the cluster what they decided and why, the inquiries may become withdrawals."

"How much time."

"A week. Perhaps ten days."

"The observation sessions. Can you arrange them within the week."

"If I start today."

"Start today."

She gathered the tablets.

At the door she stopped.

"You said: let them see Deia teach," she said. "Not let them see the session. Deia specifically."

"Yes."

"Why."

He thought about it.

"Because Deia is from Troy. She was the first student in the first school. She has been here from the beginning. Watching her teach a settlement child is not watching the school change — it is watching what the school was always building toward."

Arsini held the tablets.

"I was going to say the same thing," she said. "I wanted to hear you say it first."

"I know."

She looked at him for a moment — the quieter look, the one that existed past the recalibrating look.

"Why do you think I do that," she said.

He looked at her.

"I think," he said carefully, "that you have been right enough times that you have started checking whether I am thinking the same thing before you act. Not because you doubt yourself. Because when we arrive at the same place from different directions it means the place is real."

She held very still.

"Yes," she said. "That is exactly it."

She went out.

He sat in the supply office.

’That was the most direct conversation we have had,’ he thought. ’And neither of us said the thing we were actually talking about. We talked about Deia and the schools and arriving at the same place. We were not talking about Deia and the schools.’

’Or we were talking about both things simultaneously and the ambiguity was the point.’

’This is either very sophisticated or very evasive. Possibly both.’

He picked up the stylus — his left hand this time.

The letters were rougher. The pressure was consistent. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝐰𝚎𝕓𝐧𝚘𝘃𝗲𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝕞

He wrote the rest of the coastal watch update with his left hand and found, by the end, that it was almost as fast as his right.

’Two years of the sword grip,’ he thought. ’Without intending to.’

’Things build without you noticing until you use them.’

He set the stylus down.

The clay piece with the three lines was still face-up on the corner of the table.

The mechanism before the action. What does using Rethon make me. The same thing I was before. And something else.

He added a fourth line: What you build without noticing is still built.

He looked at all four lines.

He turned the clay face-down.