The order arrived folded, sealed, and already approved.
No explanation accompanied it. None was required.
He received it in the logistics office just after midday, handed across the desk by a clerk who did not meet his eyes. The seal bore the mark of joint authority—military and civic, pressed together hard enough to blur.
He broke it carefully.
The wording was precise.
Temporary reassignment.Restricted movement.Proximity limitations to be observed.
No duration was listed.
He read it twice, then folded it back along the original creases.
"Yes" he said.
The clerk nodded, relieved, and took the paper away as if it might stain his hands.
The new rules were not enforced loudly.
They were posted.
Markers appeared first—small, unobtrusive signs placed at intersections, depots, storehouses. Nothing dramatic. Just symbols indicating limits most people never questioned.
He noticed they were adjusted after he passed.
Not immediately.Not obviously.
By evening, a route he had walked that morning was closed for inspection. A door he had used was reassigned to another office. A ledger transfer meant for him was redirected.
No one said it was because of him.
No one had to.
He was moved to a smaller workspace near the outer wall.
Not isolated.Just less connected.
From there, he could hear the city more clearly: carts turning back, voices raised briefly and then lowered, the sound of orders revised in place.
The ache did not return.
That absence had begun to feel deliberate.
Two days later, an inspector arrived.
Not from the Choir.
From the Crown.
The man was younger than expected, dressed plainly, carrying no symbols beyond the authority in his voice.
"You will remain within marked zones," the inspector said, reading from a prepared sheet. "You will not enter reinforced structures unless directed. You will report deviations in assignment immediately."
"Yes" he said.
The inspector hesitated, then looked up.
"This is precautionary," he added.
He nodded.
"Nothing is being decided yet."
"Yes" he said again.
That appeared to satisfy him.
That night, a granary on the far side of the city collapsed inward.
No reinforcement had been added there. No repairs attempted. It had been scheduled for inspection weeks later.
The collapse injured no one.
It delayed grain distribution by a day.
By morning, the blame had already shifted.
Poor records.Neglect.Someone else's oversight.
The inspector read the report and frowned.
"That's not where we expected it," he said.
No one answered.
He stood at the boundary marker near his assigned quarters and watched the city adjust around rules that had not existed a week before.
The ground beneath him was still.
Unresponsive.
As if waiting for clearer terms.
Far above, in rooms where maps were being redrawn and movement constrained by confidence instead of knowledge, decisions hardened into policy.
And policy, once written, did not wait for warnings.