The boundary did not feel like a wall.
It was more like a silent rule—unseen, and politely refusing.
Sean stood a few steps away from Arthur, tidying something that did not need tidying. His movements were ordinary. His smile, precise. He raised his hand, his intent light, a touch that should have passed without notice, a habit that demanded no permission.
Then the air tightened.
Not a shove. Not a jolt.
A neat rejection, as if the space around Arthur had a will of its own.
Sean drew a breath a fraction of a second slower than usual. His gaze dropped to Arthur's wrist. He felt the counter-pressure precise, enough to stop him, enough to explain without words. Enough. Here.
He withdrew his hand. His smile stayed in place. Natural. Safe. If anyone had been watching, nothing would have seemed wrong.
Inside, something arranged itself and began to think. A boundary meant two things: someone had placed it, and there was a reason it needed to exist.
Sean was not angry. He was not confused. Emotion was noise, and noise blurred measurement. What he felt was only orderly curiosity. He replayed the moment, weighing its strength, the direction of the rejection, the precision of its timing. The boundary did not react to intent only to distance.
Interesting, he thought.
He glanced at Arthur briefly, long enough to confirm the rhythm of his breathing. No sign of suspicion. No shift in behavior. A good ward always tries to remain unseen.
Sean turned away, storing the note in a corner of his mind, waiting for its turn to be tested.
Boundaries always have tolerance.
And tolerance can always be studied.
✦ ✦ ✦
Arthur, on the other side of the room, felt something that nearly caught him off guard.
Lightness.
Not relief that burst open, not safety that made noise, but the sense of not needing to stay alert. Like standing in a room that had finally stopped moving. He inhaled without realizing it, his shoulders lowering slightly from a guarded posture he had not known he was holding.
The ward was working.
And because it worked too well, Arthur did not question it.
The day moved with a gentler rhythm than usual. Tasks finished without friction. The sounds of the village felt distant, muffled by something calming. Even the sea looked obedient, its waves orderly, as if they knew when to stop.
Arthur touched the pendant at his neck. Warm.
He allowed himself to believe.
That trust felt deserved.
Footsteps in the village began to thin as shadows lengthened across the sand when Arthur returned to Dermala's house.
There, the woman looked at him longer than a greeting required. Her eyes did not go to Arthur's face first, but to the space around him, as if assessing something unseen.
"The ward is active?" Dermala said at last.
Arthur nodded. "I can feel it."
Dermala straightened. For the first time that day, she spoke Arthur's name in full, clearly, without shortening it.
"Arthur Zephyr…"
His name fell like a marker, not a call.
"This ward was not made to make you comfortable. It was made to give you distance."
Arthur swallowed. "What's the difference?"
"Comfort makes you stop measuring," Dermala replied. "Distance keeps you aware."
Arthur lowered his gaze. The pendant was still warm.
"Sean will feel it," Dermala continued. "Not as rejection. As a rule."
Arthur looked up. "And rules—"
"—are always tested," Dermala cut in. "Not by collision. By closeness that looks reasonable."
There was a pause. Dermala stared at him sharply.
"If you ever feel too safe," she said, "that is when you must stop."
"Arthur Zephyr," she said again. "If one day you feel your ward does not react as it should, it is not because it has weakened."
Dermala leaned forward slightly.
"It is because you have shifted."
Silence fell. Heavy.
Arthur nodded, though he did not fully understand yet.
✦ ✦ ✦
Arthur returned to the hut. House lights lit up one by one.
The air cooled, fabric felt heavier.
Arthur opened the hut door calmly. Inside, he saw Sean sitting on the bed, reading several of Arthur's books. Arthur walked past Sean as usual, intending to take something. Sean watched him, then spoke his name as always. Short. Familiar.
"Arthur."
One word. No more.
Arthur turned. There was nothing wrong with the tone. No pressure. No strange distance. Yet the ward around him trembled faintly—not a warning, more like a small note added in the margin.
Arthur answered, "Yes?"
Sean smiled. The same as before.
Between them, the space remained obedient. It did not draw closer. It did not reject.
It only remembered.
Arthur sat down, feeling safe. Too safe.
And in a corner of his mind, without his realizing it, a sentence began to form, slowly.
The boundary does not forbid. It only determines how close.
One day, he would repeat that sentence.
With a different voice.
Sean spoke again.
"I feel like it's been very hard to touch you lately—
or is that just my imagination?"
Arthur tensed, but quickly returned his calm expression, then sat on the bed facing Sean.
"Is that so? Maybe it's just your feeling."
He smiled faintly. Sean closed the book he had been reading and set it aside, aligned neatly with the fold of the blanket. His movements were calm, as if nothing had just been noted.
"You're sure nothing's wrong?" Sean said lightly. "Don't you want to say anything?"
Arthur fell silent, then slowly shook his head. That sense of safety returned, sealing the small gaps in his thoughts, tidy like work finished on time.
Between them, the space remained calm.
"All right."
Sean turned off the lamp. Darkness did not arrive all at once, it crept into the corners, simplifying lines, removing unnecessary detail. When he lay down, his breathing had already found the right rhythm.
In his mind, the boundary was placed where it belonged, not as an obstacle, but as a measure. Something that could be tested without being touched.
Arthur closed his eyes. The warmth in his chest was still there. He slept with a simple conviction, nothing had changed.
And because nothing had changed, there was nothing to suspect.