It began with a delay.
Then a glitch.
Then a reform bill rewritten overnight—one line swapped for another, changing its impact from protection to surveillance. Caelum's name stamped across it. The Whisper Parliament met in emergency session, whispers shaking louder than intent.
Tamrin, one of the newer members—eloquent, trusted, precise—stood at the center.
"I didn't mean for it to go that far," she said.
Eland hissed. "You didn't mean to invert justice?"
She swallowed. "I thought it would help consolidate loyalty."
Caelum didn't speak.
He knew the doctrine was fragile.
Not because of ideology—but interpretation. Every phrase built on ambiguity, designed to be felt, not studied. And now someone—inside—had weaponized that ambiguity into harm.
The public backlash was immediate.
Protests turned sharp. Children cited his doctrine as reason they were denied aid. A philosopher discredited his essays. Statues with his symbols wore veils overnight.
He met Tamrin alone.
No rage.
Just silence.
"You believed in the myth," he said. "Not the memory."
She flinched. "Isn't that what you wanted?"
"No," he whispered. "I wanted a future built from scars. Not denial."
She didn't apologize.
He didn't erase her.
But he did dissolve the current Parliament structure.
That night, he walked alone through a street painted with his face—crossed out by red lines.
The devil didn't speak.
Because even she understood: some poison doesn't need her. It lives in misunderstanding.