The Arithmetic of Mercy
By the third morning, hunger had learned everyone's name.
It moved through the basin without sound, settling behind eyes, tightening voices, thinning patience. People still worked. Still recorded. Still shared. But the margins were gone.
Cassian counted quietly, lips moving as he recalculated routes and rations. "We are past stretching," he said at last. "Now we are choosing."
Lucien did not answer.
I nodded once. "Say it plainly."
"We have enough for two days," Cassian continued. "If distributed evenly. Or three if we prioritize the sick and the young."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "And the rest."
"And the rest," Cassian said, "will feel it."
Silence held.
This was not Stonecliff's force.
Not fear.
Not silence.
This was arithmetic.
A delegation arrived without ceremony. Farmers. Healers. Two guards who had not slept. They did not accuse. They asked a single question.
"Who goes first."
Lucien looked at me.
I looked at the ledger.
