Privilege arrived quietly, the way damp creeps into stone.
It did not announce itself. It did not ask permission. It simply settled, and by the time I noticed it, the shape of my days had already changed.
On the fourth morning, the cell door opened without violence.
That alone was enough to wake me fully.
The guard did not reach for my arms. He did not grip my collar or tighten chains until bone protested. He stood aside, one hand resting loosely on his baton, eyes unfocused in the practiced way of someone who had already decided I was not worth the effort.
Rook noticed before I did.
"They didn't grab you," he said, voice low, almost careful.
I stepped into the corridor. The stone was the same damp grey, the lamps still buzzing with insect-light, but something intangible had shifted. The pressure that usually pressed against my chest as soon as I left the cell had loosened, like fingers releasing a grip they were confident could be reapplied at will.
I looked down at my wrists.
The chains were still there, but altered. Shorter. Lighter. Designed not to restrain so much as to *declare*. A visible reminder, not a tool.
"That's how it starts," Rook said quietly behind me. "They stop hurting you themselves."
The door closed before I could ask him what came next.
They did not take me to the sorting chamber.
The absence was immediate and disorienting, like missing a step you'd learned to brace for. Instead, the guards turned me toward the stairwell I had only glimpsed before. The stairs curved upward, narrower than expected, worn smooth by careful, deliberate feet.
As we climbed, the air changed.
Rot faded. Dampness receded. The smell of mold gave way to oil, polish, and something faintly floral that reminded me of my mother's drawer sachets. The lamps here burned steadier, their glass cleaned often enough to reflect faces instead of swallowing them.
The walls were intact.
Cracks had been filled rather than ignored. Stone scrubbed rather than surrendered. I understood then that neglect in the lower levels was not a failure of resources. It was a choice.
The room they brought me to had a window.
Real glass, unbroken.
Light spilled across the floor in a pale, almost apologetic wash. It hurt my eyes. I hadn't realized how accustomed I'd grown to shadow until brightness felt like an intrusion.
A desk stood near the center of the room. Not ornate, but sturdy, its surface polished smooth by hands that did not bleed on it. Papers were stacked neatly, each pile aligned with care that bordered on reverence.
Ink. Quills. Wax seals.
"You'll assist here," the man with polished boots said. His voice was calm, as if we were discussing weather or minor inconvenience. "Clerical observation."
I nodded, because nodding was the safest response I knew.
"You will speak only when addressed," he continued. "You will listen always. You will copy exactly what you are told."
He placed a ledger into my hands.
Leather-bound.
The weight of it startled me—not because it was heavy, but because it was *real*. Untorn. Unmolded. The kind of object that survived disasters by being protected from them.
My hands were clean when I touched it.
That should have frightened me more than the chains ever had.
Clerical work was quieter than labor.
That was its danger.
I learned the prison by tracing its movements in ink. Names traveled from column to column. Marks appeared beside them—symbols I did not yet understand, but which repeated often enough to suggest hierarchy, consequence, escalation.
Some names vanished entirely.
They were not erased.
They were crossed through, once, cleanly. The line was always straight. Final. No one scribbled. No one hesitated.
I copied without asking.
At midday, a tray was brought in. Bread that did not crumble into dust. Cheese that smelled faintly alive. Water that did not taste like rust or fear. I ate alone at the desk, aware of how conspicuous that solitude was.
From the window, I could see the yard.
Prisoners moved in lines below, hauling stone, carrying crates, bodies bent into the same careful angles I remembered from the sorting room. Overseers walked among them, boots steady, batons loose in their hands.
I recognized faces.
They did not look up.
Distance, I realized, was not measured in steps.
The woman with pinned hair entered without knocking.
She was older than I'd first thought, her face lined not by age but by restraint. Her dress was simple, but clean, its seams repaired with care rather than haste. Authority clung to her without ornament.
"You're the boy," she said.
I stood instinctively.
"No need," she replied. "You'll get used to not standing."
She leaned over the desk, eyes scanning the ledger with practiced ease.
"You write neatly," she observed.
"Thank you," I said, then immediately wished I hadn't.
She paused. "Careful. Gratitude can be misread."
My throat tightened.
"They will test you now," she continued, as though discussing weather. "Not with pain. With proximity."
"Proximity to what?" I asked.
She straightened and met my eyes for the first time.
"Decision."
That afternoon, they gave me a task.
Not labor. Not correction. Delivery.
A sealed envelope pressed into my hand. I was given directions through corridors I had never walked—cleaner ones, quieter, with doors that closed fully and did not scream when moved.
As I walked, I felt it.
The shift in how others perceived me.
Guards nodded—not deeply, not respectfully, but enough to acknowledge my passage. Prisoners glanced up briefly, eyes flicking to the cleaner cuffs of my shirt, the ledger tucked beneath my arm like a badge.
I passed the furnace room.
Heat rolled out when the door opened, thick and suffocating. Inside, bodies moved in a haze of sweat and smoke. The boy with burned hands was there, skin red and shining, breath ragged.
His eyes found mine.
He did not look angry.
He looked confused.
As though I had stepped through a door he could no longer see.
I delivered the envelope. The overseer broke the seal, read quickly, grunted, and waved me away.
As I turned, the furnace roared louder.
That night, the cell felt smaller.
Rook studied me as I entered, his gaze catching on details I hadn't known were visible.
"You ate," he said.
"Yes."
"You walked alone."
"Yes."
He leaned back against the wall. "That's how it starts."
"With what?"
"With separation," he replied. "They don't need to hurt you anymore. They'll let everyone else do it for them."
I lay back on the stone, the cold familiar now.
"I didn't choose this," I said.
Rook gave a quiet, humorless laugh. "Neither did the rest of us. Choice is just the story they tell afterward."
The drip from the ceiling sounded louder tonight.
I stared into the dark, thinking of the ledger. The crossed-out names. The boy at the furnace.
Privilege, I understood at last, was not protection.
It was distance.
And distance always charged interest.