Limits of Patience

The sun dipped low on the horizon as Lyra carefully pruned the edges of their garden, her hands moving methodically through the soft green leaves. The work was meditative, a small but grounding ritual that helped her steady herself in the swirling uncertainty of the days ahead. Nearby, Meera was cleaning tools at the workbench, her movements quick and precise. She glanced over at Lyra and smiled faintly, though her eyes were heavy with thought.

“Victor’s really stirred things up, hasn’t he?” Lyra finally broke the silence, her voice calm but laced with unease.

Meera paused, holding a small, well-worn blade in her hand. “Stirred things up? That’s putting it lightly. He’s got people questioning things they’ve never questioned before.” She set the blade down, her fingers curling into fists. “And they’re listening to him.”

Lyra knelt in the dirt, her fingers pressing into the soil as if seeking answers there. “It’s not just what he says, though, is it? It’s how he says it. Like he knows the Creche better than we do.”

Meera snorted. “He thinks he knows them. That’s the problem. People like him don’t see balance; they see opportunity.”

Lyra thought back to a time, years ago, when her trust in balance had first been tested. She’d been barely fifteen, wandering into the Wastes with a group of peers on a dare. They had stumbled upon a Creche—a strange, spindly thing, its body shimmering with a metallic sheen. Lyra had been awestruck, but one of the boys had thrown a rock at it, laughing as it flinched.

The Creche hadn’t retaliated, but the ground beneath their feet had shifted subtly. By the time they returned home, crops had withered in one corner of the field, and a section of the river had dried up. No one had needed to explain what had happened; the message had been clear. The Creche’s patience had limits.

Lyra shook her head at the memory. “You think the Creche would intervene if Victor went too far?”

Meera didn’t answer right away. Instead, she picked up the blade again, running her fingers along its edge. “Maybe. But the Creche aren’t guardians, not the way people want them to be. They won’t step in unless balance itself is at stake. By the time that happens, it might be too late for us.”