ANMELDENViene’s POV I proposed it myself. Nobody made me. “Twenty-four hours,” I said, at breakfast, before any of them could start another version of the same argument. “Limited contact. Not none. Just less. I need to know if distance actually helps or if we’ve all just been guessing.” Nathan set his cup down slowly. “I support it.” “Of course you do,” Nolan said. “It means less of me and more of your rules.” “It means data,” Neil said. “Which is what I’ve been asking for since the wall.” “Nobody asked how I feel about being the variable,” Nolan said, and left the table before anyone could answer him. I watched him go and felt the first pull already, small, easy to ignore. I told myself that was a good sign. The morning went fine. I sat in the study reading through the sections of the file Nathan had cleared, Neil at the desk across from me, and the mark stayed calm the whole time, quieter than it had been in days. “See,” Nathan said, checking in around noon. “Calm.” “It’s been si
Viene’s POV The pain started two hours after Nathan walked away down that corridor. A hollow ache under my collarbone, spreading slowly, then fast. By the time I made it to my room, I couldn’t stand straight. My hands shook reaching for the door handle. I sat on the floor because the bed felt too far. The file. Had to be. The blacked-out lines, the blood-pressure match with no name attached, the mark reacting to written words for the first time instead of touch. Whatever it was, it hadn’t finished with me yet. I didn’t call anyone. I could handle it. I’d told myself that before. The ache sharpened into something closer to a blade twisting slowly. I pressed both palms against my chest and felt my own pulse hammering under them, too fast, wrong. “Nolan.” I didn’t say it loud. Barely said it at all. But the mark pulled east the second his name left my mouth, sharp and certain, and I understood I hadn’t actually been trying to ride it out alone. I’d been waiting to see how long
Viene’s POV Neil left when Nathan told him to. He gathered the folder, said nothing, and walked past his brother without meeting his eyes. He was giving us the room on purpose. Nathan shut the door behind him. “How long?” he said. “How long what?” “How long have you two been doing this without me?” “This is the first session. I already told you that.” “You told me tonight was the first session. I’m asking how long he’s had that file.” I crossed my arms. “Ask him. I don’t know what he had before tonight.” “That’s not an answer.” “It’s the only one I have.” I held his gaze. “If you want to be angry at someone for keeping things from you, be angry at the person who actually did it. Don’t make this an interrogation of me because you can’t have that conversation with him yet.” His shoulders dropped, just slightly, before he straightened again. “I’m not trying to interrogate you.” “Could’ve fooled me.” He crossed the room instead of answering that. He came closer, and I hated
Viene’s POV Neil sat across from me at the small table by the window instead of the desk, the folder between us unopened. “Before I show you anything,” he said, “I need to set terms. I’m not doing this the way I did the memory object. No surprises, no discovering the risk after we’re already inside it.” “Okay.” “Some of this is censored. Not by me — by whoever compiled the archive originally. Whole lines blacked out, sometimes whole pages. I’m going to show you exactly what’s there, including the gaps. I’m not going to fill them in with guesses and pretend they’re facts.” “I understand.” “And if it gets to be too much, you tell me, and we stop. Not tomorrow. Not after one more page. The second you say stop.” “I will.” He opened the folder. The first page was old, the paper gone soft and yellow at the edges, handwriting in ink that had faded to brown. A diagram sat at the top, the same kind Neil had shown all of us before — a woman’s figure, lines radiating from a central poi
Viene’s POV The lockdown made the compound smaller. Fewer staff, fewer footsteps in the corridors, more silence for me to sit inside and think about things I didn’t want to think about. By the second day of it, a guard I didn’t recognize stopped me outside the dining hall and asked to see written clearance before I could pass. I didn’t have any. Nathan had to be sent for. He apologized after, said the new guards didn’t know my face yet, but it left something cold sitting in my chest the rest of the morning. I couldn’t remember the dream that night, only that I’d woken up afraid. My first thought wasn’t a person. It was a need. Structure. Someone to tell me the day had a shape, that things were still under some kind of order even if that order was fragile. By the time I realized where I was, I was standing in the east hallway outside Nathan’s study. I hadn’t decided to go there. My feet had. I stopped in the hallway. I didn’t go in. That evening, the mark pulled tight and unco
Viene’s POV Nobody spoke on the walk back up from the chamber. Emani’s sentence sat behind my ribs the whole way, warm and patient, like it had taken up residence instead of just being said. You’re repeating it. By the time we reached the main hall, Nathan had already started giving orders. “Full lockdown on lower-level access,” he told the senior guard. “Nobody goes down without my direct clearance. Staff rotations get cut in half — I want fewer eyes on this wing, not more.” “Sir, that’s most of the night staff.” “I’m aware.” I stepped in front of him before he could finish the list. “You’re treating this like a security leak.” “It is a security leak. Somewhere between the ceremony circle and tonight, information about you has moved outside these walls fast enough that Vantrell sent an envoy who already knew things he shouldn’t. I’m not doing that again.” “You’re punishing people who didn’t do anything.” “I’m reducing the number of people who could.” His voice didn’t softe







