The order arrived in the morning, folded neatly into the day as if it had always been meant to be there.
It came with the breakfast tray.
The handler noticed it immediately one extra sheet resting atop the porcelain, aligned too carefully to be accidental. The clerk who delivered it did not meet their eyes. He placed the tray down, nodded once, and withdrew with the same quiet efficiency he applied to everything else in the fort.
The door closed.
The handler waited a moment longer than necessary before reaching for the paper.
It was crisp. New. Too clean.
They read the header first.
PROXIMITY PROTOCOL REVISIONSubject: AURELClassification: Conditional Ward — AnomalousDirective: Controlled Isolation Implementation
No crest.No signature.
Just authority.
The handler read it again, slower this time, the meaning settling like weight behind the eyes.
Handler access: restricted.Contact duration: limited.Distance requirement: enforced.Reassignment contingency: prepared.
The words were neutral. Thoughtful, even.
They were still a blade.
Across the room, Aurel sat on the edge of his bed, hands folded in his lap, watching the handler's face instead of the paper. His posture was careful, as though he had learned that stillness attracted less attention than movement.
"What is it?" he asked.
The handler folded the document once, then again, precise creases as if that might soften its contents. "A schedule," they said.
Aurel's gaze followed their hands. "A schedule for what?"
The handler hesitated. "For… spacing things out," they replied. "So the wards can stay stable."
Aurel nodded, accepting the explanation without comment. He had long since learned the difference between answers and explanations.
By midday, the fort had begun to change.
Aurel's door sigil was replaced first its looping runes narrowed, simplified, less decorative. Two additional marks were etched above the frame, small enough to miss unless you knew to look for them.
The handler watched from the corridor as the work was done. They recognized the marks immediately.
Boundary modifiers.
Someone had decided distance was safer than trust.
No one spoke while the etching was finished. The scribe copied the updated markings into a ledger, closed it, and stepped away.
"Protocol begins at second bell," the clerk said, tone as neutral as weather.
"I'm assigned to him," the handler said.
"You remain assigned," the clerk replied. "With limits."
"Why?"
The clerk did not look up. "Stability."
At second bell, a thin silver line appeared in the stone floor just outside Aurel's door.
It wasn't paint or chalk. It was inlaid directly into the stone—so fine it could be mistaken for a crack until the light struck it and revealed the faint gleam of metal.
A boundary mark.
Not meant to restrain a child.
Meant to restrain an adult.
Aurel noticed it immediately. He stood just inside the doorway, staring down at the line as though it were a question written in a language he almost understood.
Neither of them crossed it.
The first isolation period lasted twelve minutes.
A clerk recorded the start time. Another noted the end. A third monitored the ambient readings, the low hum of the wards steady but attentive, like something listening.
The handler stood just outside the line, hands clasped behind their back to keep from reaching for the door. The instinct pulled at them constantly, a physical ache in the arms.
Inside, Aurel sat on the bed.
Hands folded.Back straight.Eyes on the wall.
He breathed slowly.
He did not cry.
Crying made things worse.
Somewhere deeper in the fort, a stabilizing ward dimmed slightly.
Not enough to alarm anyone.
Enough to note.
When the door opened again, the handler stepped forward without thinking—then stopped short at the silver line.
Aurel looked up.
For a brief moment, confusion crossed his face.
The handler felt it like a blow.
"Are you alright?" they asked.
Aurel nodded, though uncertainty lingered in his eyes.
The second isolation period lasted longer.
Twenty minutes.
This time, the handler was asked politely to wait elsewhere.
"The observation room," the clerk said. "It will be easier."
Easier for whom went unspoken.
The observation room was narrow, its treated glass faintly clouded by stabilizing etch work. The handler could see Aurel's room through it, but not clearly. Just enough to confirm position. To record compliance.
Aurel sat as before, a small figure against pale stone.
The handler's reflection hovered in the glass, superimposed like a ghost.
When Aurel turned his head, the handler flinched, absurdly afraid he would see them.
He didn't.
Or chose not to.
After the third isolation period, Aurel stood at the silver line inside his room, staring down at it.
"It's not for me," he said quietly when the handler returned.
"No," the handler admitted.
Aurel nodded. "I'll be good."
The handler's hands clenched behind their back.
"You already are," they said, though the words felt thin.
Aurel looked up then not pleading, not accusing.
Only measuring.
"Good means quiet," he said.
The handler did not answer.
At dusk, the Imperial Thaumarch arrived without announcement.
He did not enter the room. He stopped at the silver line, as though it had been drawn for him as well. His gaze traced the new runes, the boundary mark, the faint vibration in the air most people would never notice.
"How long has the protocol been active?" he asked.
"Since second bell," the handler replied.
"And the subject?"
"Compliant," the handler said, then corrected themselves. "Quiet."
The Thaumarch's mouth tightened slightly. "Do you use the name?"
"Yes."
"Do not," he said.
The handler stiffened. "It's his name."
"It is a designation," the Thaumarch replied. "And it is interfering."
Behind the door, Aurel's voice carried faintly.
"You said my name."
The Thaumarch went still.
The ward above the door dimmed and brightened, recalculating.
"That is… problematic," the Thaumarch said softly.
That night, the handler was issued a new key.
Not to Aurel's door.
To the observation room.
It was presented as necessity, not punishment.
Aurel's lamp flickered twice before midnight.
The stabilizing rune dimmed, brightened, then dimmed again.
In the records wing, a clerk woke with ink on their fingers and no memory of writing. In the margin of a ledger, a single word appeared:
AUREL
In the morning, the handler stood behind treated glass and watched a child sit in a room redesigned to make kindness impossible.
Aurel spoke without turning.
"I'll be quiet."
The handler did not answer.
Because any answer would have been another boundary.