The requisition did not originate from the fort.
That was the first thing the handler noticed.
It arrived folded into a routine supply packet, slipped between inventory tallies and maintenance requests, its paper thinner than most, its ink lighter, as though it had already passed through several hands that preferred not to leave marks.
The handler paused with the page half-drawn free.
The header carried a regional designation they did not recognize at first glance. Not unfamiliar patterned. Another node in the system.
Another place like this one.
They read on.
RESOURCE REALLOCATION NOTICECategory: Specialized Ward AssetsQuantity Requested: Two (2)Age Bracket: Below ThresholdCondition: ViableOrigin: PendingPriority: Elevated
No names.No locations.No justification.
Just throughput.
The handler read it again, slower this time.
Viable.
Not healthy.Not unharmed.Not safe.
Viable.
Across the room, Aurel sat on the bed, watching light crawl along the stone wall as the sun shifted outside. The wards hummed softly stable, content, as if pleased with themselves.
"Do you know where food comes from?" he asked suddenly.
The handler looked up, startled. "Food?"
"Yes," Aurel said. "Here."
The handler hesitated. "From storage. From the city."
Aurel nodded. "It comes on carts."
"Yes."
"And before that?"
The handler set the slate down slowly. "Why are you asking?"
Aurel considered the question. "Things don't just appear," he said. "Someone has to bring them."
The handler felt something cold settle behind their ribs.
"No," they said quietly. "They don't."
In the administrative wing, a logistics clerk reconciled shipment delays.
Her desk was orderly. Her hands steady.
She cross-referenced orchard losses against intake shortfalls, adjusted a column of figures, then frowned.
The discrepancy wasn't large.
It was consistent.
She added a note in the margin:
Reallocate from alternate stream.
The stylus paused.
Then continued.
The handler read the requisition a third time.
At the bottom of the page, stamped in lighter ink, almost as an afterthought, was a line they had missed before:
NOTE: Prior losses due to orchard failure accounted for.Replacement stock authorized under Continuity Clause.
Replacement.
The handler closed their eyes.
The orchard had not been an anomaly.
It had been a disruption in supply.
That evening, a transport manifest passed through the fort without stopping.
The handler saw only the summary weights, seals, destination codes scrolling across a clerk's slate.
One crate was listed separately.
Smaller.Lighter.Handled by internal personnel only.
The handler did not ask what was inside.
They already knew.
"Aurel," the handler said later, standing just outside the silver line.
"Yes?" Aurel replied, looking up.
"Has anyone ever told you why the Empire keeps records?"
Aurel shrugged. "So, they don't forget."
"Yes," the handler said.
Aurel waited.
"So, they can count," the handler added.
"Count what?"
The handler exhaled slowly. "What they can afford to lose."
Aurel looked down at his hands.
After a moment, he asked, "Am I counted?"
The handler did not answer right away.
Outside the room, the fort settled into its nightly rhythm. Somewhere deep in the stone, a ward recalibrated and logged the adjustment.
"Yes," the handler said finally.
Aurel absorbed that without reaction.
Then, quietly: "Am I replaceable?"
The question struck harder than any accusation.
"No," the handler said immediately.
It was the first answer they had given without checking it against protocol.
The weight of it lingered.
Later that night, a ledger was updated.
A shipment diverted.A delay compensated.A deficit resolved.
No alarms sounded.
No directives were issued.
The system balanced.
Aurel lay awake, listening to the wards hum, counting breaths until the numbers lost meaning.
He did not dream of fire or power or light.
He dreamed of carts on a road, stretching farther than he could see.
Somewhere, a child cried.
Somewhere else, a number changed.
The Empire slept.