The phrase started as a joke.
"Charge for breath," Benedict had said.
The city took him seriously.
Within a week, three independent sync designers had drafted prototypes for atmospheric nodes. The logic was simple: if the pulse governed rhythm, and breath was rhythm, then surely breath could be measured, harmonized, and—inevitably—taxed.
Benedict wanted to throw a wrench into the entire idea. Instead, he reviewed the schematics.
"Too coarse," he muttered. "You'll get signal fog and echo delay. Try a dual-band breath-capture array with a silent rebound loop."
The designers blinked. One wrote it down. Another whispered, "Genius."
Benedict sighed. "I am not endorsing this."
They didn't listen.
---
The first Atmospheric Relay Node (ARN) went live near the Moonwater fountain plaza. It didn't tax anything—not officially. But it did hum in sync with nearby respiration. If you stood still, it rewarded you with a brief warmth. If you breathed erratically, it dimmed.
Children loved it.
Street performers hated it.
Eline called it the politest form of judgment ever invented.
"I just coughed and it dimmed," Arden grumbled.
Benedict scowled. "That's feedback, not taxation."
"Then why are they calling it The Breath Tax?"
Because it spread.
---
Markets adjusted, as they always did.
Breath-coaching services became a booming business. Sync-inhalers were sold in apothecaries. One noble family hired a bard to teach harmonic sighing. A street-side pulse healer began offering "empathic exhale cleanses" that cost more if your rhythm was off.
Churches rewrote hymns to flow with the relay. Prayer rituals now included guided breath cycles. A fringe sect claimed the ARNs were divine lungs, gifted by a silent god.
A bakery claimed their bread rose better when the ARN was in tune.
A theater company added "breathe with the house" instructions before each act.
Public baths installed breath-synced steam diffusers. It became fashionable to sigh before entering.
Benedict watched as a meditation group claimed their breathing saved mana.
He buried his face in his hands.
"Just breathe," Eline said, amused.
"I'm trying," he said, "but now it's monetized."
---
That week, the Council passed an ordinance: All public sync nodes must report environmental resonance drift.
Which included breath.
Which meant taxes.
Which meant Benedict's throwaway comment had become fiscal policy.
"Am I cursed?" he asked Shael.
She signed, Only if being obeyed is a curse.
---
To test the backlash, Benedict installed a prototype of a node that intentionally desynced from breath.
It caused anxiety, dizziness, and a five-person brawl over a bench.
He took it down.
The next day, someone left a thank-you note.
It read: Thank you for the breath.
And on the back: Please never take it away again.
---
He started tracking behavioral drift.
People walked slower. They paused mid-conversation to sync their inhalations. Arguments stopped more quickly. A married couple on the verge of divorce credited the node with restoring their communication rhythm.
A playground installed an ARN-adapted swing. Children had to breathe together to keep the swing moving. They loved it.
A performance troupe used a modified node to time choreography entirely through collective breathing.
A bar banned ARNs inside after a patron hyperventilated during a toast.
A sculptor created a live installation titled "Echo Chest"—viewers could only approach it in synchronized breath. The line stretched down two streets.
A merchant sold a silver whistle that couldn't be heard by the ear but synced with the ARN. It became a meditative tool for the rich and a prank device for teenagers.
A poet published a breath-based language. It required pauses, sighs, exhales, and tempo shifts. It was unreadable. It won an award.
A small commune developed an anti-node rhythm: deliberate mis-syncing. They wore patches on their chests that pulsed irregularly. They called it Free Air.
A Vehrmath philosopher published a treatise titled Exhalation and Sovereignty, arguing that the right to breathe unmeasured should be enshrined in civic code.
---
That evening, Benedict stared at the latest version of the design schematic. Someone had added an interface glyph labeled "graceful breathfall latency tuning."
He didn't know what that meant.
But he knew this:
He had given them rhythm.
And now they were setting it to music.
Even breathing, it seemed, was no longer personal.
It belonged to the network now.
---
Before sleep, Benedict sat beside his own private node—untuned, unlinked, unlicensed.
He inhaled.
It didn't respond.
And for once, that felt like peace.
Then the node blinked.
Not a sync. Not a ping.
Just a breath.
And Benedict, reluctantly, exhaled in time.
Then he laughed.
Not bitterly. Not triumphantly.
Just softly, like someone who had finally accepted the shape of his own unintended legacy.
---
Far above Vehrmath, in a drifting archive station cradled by forgotten orbit, the First Master paused mid-calculation. Dozens of silent constructs surrounded him, each inscribed with lattice glyphs older than the capital itself.
He watched the ripple pattern.
Watched the world inhale.
Watched it pulse.
"So," he whispered, "you made them breathe in tune."
A screen blinked with a pattern so complex it nearly passed for laughter.
The First Master leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly.
"I see you, Benedict. I see what you're doing."
He folded his hands and stared at the simulation as it spiraled into fractal sync.
"Let's see how far you go before they crown you god of the air."
Another pause.
He turned to a construct nearby. "Run every pattern he's ever left behind. Every discard. Every sketch. Map them not to pulse—map them to breath."
The construct whirred, then blinked green.
"Let's see," the First Master murmured, "if he's already written the next node... and just hasn't noticed yet."
Outside the station, an ancient, sealed panel pulsed once.
And began to breathe.