The name was used again.
This time not from afar.
Marikka understood it by the way Cedric stiffened before even turning around. A minimal gesture: his shoulders rising by one degree, his hand searching for the notebook like seeking a grip.
"Excuse me," a voice said behind him. "Are you..."
Cedric turned around.
The man who had stopped them was not dressed in any particular way. Neither poor nor rich. He held a wooden box with a sliding lid, full of small, organized objects: seals, keys, pieces of engraved metal.
He wasn't looking at Marikka.
He was looking at Cedric.
"Are you the contact person?" he asked.
Cedric opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at Marikka. She felt the weight of the question even before he decided how to answer.
Contact person.
Not guarantor. Not protector. Something worse: point of contact.
Marikka made a slow gesture: wait.
She wrote in the notebook:
WHO SENT YOU.
The man smiled with relief, as if that question had given him the context he was looking for. "No one directly. I was told that, if I needed access, I should ask him."
He indicated Cedric with a gentle nod.
"It works," he added. "They find you more easily."
Cedric swallowed. "Who?"
"It depends on what they are looking for."
Marikka felt the city respond with a minimal, almost imperceptible delay. As if the word depends was an already anticipated variable.
They didn't say anything else. The man stepped aside, letting them pass, but Marikka clearly felt that something had closed behind them.
Not a door.
A possibility.
The house that welcomed them shortly after was not the same as the courtyard.
It was larger. Not elegant. Prepared.
The rooms were spacious, bare, with surfaces chosen not to retain too much. Sturdy tables, simple seating, light distributed without deep shadows. Not a refuge. A neutral zone.
"It is temporary," said a woman who was waiting for them at the entrance. She did not introduce herself. It wasn't necessary. "Unfiltered requests do not enter here."
Cedric stared at her. "Filtered by whom?"
The woman looked at him as one looks at someone who has already signed something without knowing it. "By the one who proposed the frame to you."
Aurelian took a step forward. "This was not—"
"—negotiable?" she concluded. "No. It was informative."
Marikka felt Aurelian's body react with a dry tension. Not pain. Exclusion.
The vibration passing through him was that of someone who recognizes a system and understands that he is no longer an active part of it.
They were left alone.
Cedric paced the room, once. Then he stopped. "Okay. This... this is already too much."
Marikka rested her fingers on the table. The wood responded with a calm, regular vibration. There were no estimates underway here. Only organized waiting.
She wrote:
IT IS THE FRAME.
Cedric scoffed. "A frame that uses my name."
Aurelian spoke softly. "It was inevitable."
Cedric turned towards him. "It was not."
"Yes," Aurelian replied. "From the moment Marikka became attributable."
There was no accusation in his voice. Only a statement of fact.
Marikka felt the weight on her shoulders become more present. No longer like something new, but like something that reacted. The frame didn't tighten. It defined.
A light knock on the door.
The first woman re-entered, accompanied by the man who had made the offer. He did not carry documents. Just a presence that knew where to stand.
"I won't keep you long," he said. "This is not yet an agreement."
Cedric crossed his arms. "Then why are we here?"
"Because," the man replied, "the initial conditions are never discussed when one is under pressure."
He sat down. Not in the center. To the side. Like one who does not want to appear to be the axis.
"First condition," he said. "Your position will be mediated. Anyone who wants to access it will go through me."
Marikka wrote:
EXCEPTIONS.
The man nodded. "Always."
A pause. "Not for everyone."
"Second condition," he continued. "No direct exposure. No demonstrations. No requests for proof."
Cedric let out a short, nervous laugh. "Generous."
"Pragmatic," the man replied. "Proofs attract competitors."
Aurelian closed his eyes. "And the third?"
The man looked at him. "The third concerns you."
Aurelian straightened his back.
"For your safety," the man said, in an impeccable tone, "certain information will no longer be communicated to you."
Silence.
Marikka felt something break with a sound that no one could hear. It was not anger. It was loss of function.
Aurelian did not protest. He lowered his gaze. "I understand."
Cedric took a step forward. "No, you don't—"
Marikka raised her hand. Stop.
She wrote slowly:
AND HIM.
She indicated Cedric.
The man followed the gesture. "Your contact person."
A half-smile. "Human. Understandable. Reassuring."
Cedric turned pale. "I will not—"
"—decide," the man concluded. "But you will be cited."
That word hung in the air.
Cited.
Marikka felt anger rise like an irregular vibration. Not explosive. Unstable.
She wrote:
THIS IS THE PRICE.
The man did not deny it. "It is the beginning of the price."
He stood up. "You have time to get used to it. Not to change your mind."
He made to leave, then stopped at the threshold.
"One last thing," he said. "Someone has already asked about you. Not through me."
Cedric stared at him. "Who?"
The man tilted his head. "A minor cult. And a civic register."
A pause.
"And on the other side," he added, "someone has stopped waiting."
When he left, the room did not seem bigger.
Marikka felt the change with brutal clarity: the frame was active. The conditions were in effect. They had not signed anything.
But the world was already reacting as if they had.
Cedric sat down heavily. "We're in," he said. Not as a choice. As a discovery.
Aurelian looked at Marikka. "Now you will have to decide what is worth losing."
Marikka clenched her hand into a fist.
She felt the name—not hers—respond somewhere in the city.
And she understood that the first true choice would not be whether to accept the frame.
But who would be sacrificable when the frame was no longer enough.