Melvin’s jaw tightened once.
“You will all remain under Stewardry observation,” the High Steward continued. “Not because you have erred. Because you are variables we cannot afford to misunderstand.”
Mac’s wolf pressed closer behind his ribs at that word.
The High Steward’s gaze flicked to Reynolds again. “He will remain here. Under watch. Under instruction until we make the proper arrangements for movement.”
Melvin’s voice stayed steady. “Instruction by who. And movement where?”
The younger figure looked up for the first time. His eyes were dark, his expression unreadable. “Warden-physicians,” he said. “Those trained in the early stages. When he is ready, he will be moved to a secure Stewardry facility until stabilization is confirmed.”
“And if he spikes?” Mac asked.
The woman answered too quickly. “Containment.”
Mac held her gaze. “Define it.”
The High Steward answered instead. “Constraint until he can choose control consistently. If he cannot,” he said, and did not finish the sentence.
Mac’s hand on Reynolds’ forearm tightened slightly, not hurting, just present. Reynolds’ eyes flicked down to the contact, then back up to Mac, like the anchor mattered more now that the room was full of politics.
Mac took a slow breath. “He can learn,” he said. “Not by being treated like a bomb.”
The High Steward studied him. “Then teach,” he replied.
The words sounded like permission. They sounded more like an order.
Reynolds’ body shuddered, small tremors running through his thighs and abdomen, as if something inside him was still pressing at the edges. The monitor spiked, then dipped. Mac felt Melvin shift his weight again, and the spike eased a fraction.
The High Steward watched the monitor. “Interesting,” he murmured.
Mac’s stomach tightened at that word.
The High Steward turned his gaze fully to Mac and Melvin then, and the sealed room felt even smaller. “There will be a trial of distance,” he said.
Melvin went still beside the bed. Not fear. Calculation.
“You will separate,” the woman said, satisfaction barely masked. “To determine whether your influence anchors or accelerates.”
The High Steward’s voice remained calm. “This is a controlled separation. Brief. We are measuring influence, not removing support.”
“And if the distance destabilizes him?” Mac asked.
“Then you return to him,” the High Steward replied.
Mac understood what this was. Not just a test. A leash.
Melvin spoke, voice even. “You’re proposing separation while he’s still early.”
The High Steward looked at him. “I am proposing separation when I can cloak a room and place wardens at a door,” he said. “Do you believe there will be a safer time?”
Melvin didn’t answer.
Mac’s hand remained on Reynolds’ forearm. He leaned in closer, lowering his voice so only Reynolds could hear. “You’re going to learn to do this without us in the room,” Mac said. “Not because you’re alone. Because you deserve to own your body.”
Reynolds’ eyes burned with fear and anger and something like relief. He nodded once, shallow and jerky, but real. Melvin’s voice softened, just slightly, directed at Reynolds now. “We’ll be back,” he said. “But you’re going to practice. You’re going to build your own anchor.”
Reynolds swallowed, eyes flicking between them. His breathing found their rhythm again. Not perfect. Not stable. But negotiated.
