A Woman Named 'Ellis'

Part XIV - Say 'Yes' (End of Arc I)

I. The Month the Republic Held Its Breath

The final day of recess arrived like the first breath before a plunge, brisk, cloudless, thick with anticipation. On the riverside plaza in the capital, the crowd was modest but attentive. A breeze rippled across the water, carrying with it the quiet tension of a Republic unsure if it was ready to change. Flags snapped gently in the wind. Reporters lined the front, cameras poised, while Mireille stood just behind the first row, her scarf loose around her neck, hands clasped at her waist.

Maria stepped up first. The Chancellor looked older than a month ago, more lined around the eyes, more deliberate in her bearing, but also clearer, freer, as if finally speaking with her own voice again.

"This isn't a power grab," she said, voice firm but open. "It's a repair. The laws should not be a loophole."

She didn't smile. She didn't need to. The words carried their own strength.

Next came Fausta, measured as ever, her coat buttoned, her hair swept back in that precise, practical way that had become something of a signature. She scanned the crowd, found a few furrowed brows, and met them directly.

"It's not about trusting this Chancellor," she said, carefully. "It's about preparing for the next."

A murmur rippled through the audience, agreement, resistance, thoughtfulness. The kind of sound Fausta preferred. Not blind applause. Processing.

Then Madoc took the podium, all easy charm and worn-down boots, sleeves half-rolled. He leaned into the microphone with a slight smirk.

"We're not burning the house down," he said. "We're fixing the roof. Before the next storm."

The applause that followed was real. Small at first. Then growing. Mireille sighed softly, proud. Hopeful. Watching her wife reclaim her place not as the strongest voice in the room, but as one among many, balanced and belonging.

Far south in Port Driscoll, under gull-filled skies and the stink of salt and tar, Madoc stood in his element, between crates and rusted cranes, sleeves rolled all the way now. A foremark with a weathered face crossed his arms.

"And who watches the High Mark if they get more power?"

Madoc answered without missing a beat.

"A stronger High Mark means stronger scrutiny. It means the Council and the courts grow teeth. And I'd rather my grandchildren grow up with that than live under someone who finds a loophole in twenty years and burns it all down."

The foremark didn't nod. Not at first. But he extended a hand and when Madoc shook it, the applause began. Cautious. Then steady.

In the windswept breadbelt of Meadow Valley, Fausta wore worn boots and a borrowed coat, grain clinging to the fabric as she stood on a hay bale before a crowd of farmers. An elderly woman, sharp-eyed and unsparing, narrowed her gaze.

"No one wants another capital mark telling us what to do."

Fausta didn't flinch. "Then vote 'yes,' because it means no one can pretend they aren't."

There was a pause. A longer one than she liked. But the woman finally gave a grunt of approval and patted her on the shoulder.

"You're not your grandfather."

Fausta nearly choked on her tea.

In Saint Marcia Square, where the stained glass spilled colour onto cobbled stone, students gathered, sharp-tongued and hungry for contradiction. Maria stood before them in simple dress, no dais, no pomp.