Theon called for her early.
Not abruptly, not urgently — simply early enough that the day still felt undecided. Mia had barely settled into the rhythm of her new schedule when a staff member informed her that she was expected in the study.
She straightened her clothes before entering, a habit she had developed without realizing it.
Theon was already there.
He stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, looking out at the grounds below. The room was quiet, heavy with the kind of stillness that existed only in places where decisions were made regularly.
"Sit," he said without turning.
She did.
"This isn't about your placement," he began. "That's already been decided."
Her shoulders loosened slightly.
"There's one test left," he continued. "The last one."
Mia's fingers curled against her knees. "Another evaluation?"
"Yes," he said. "The loyalty test."
She waited for instructions.
None came.
"What do I need to do?" she asked finally.
He turned to face her then, expression unreadable.
"That's the difference," he said. "Nothing will be announced."
Her brow furrowed. "I don't understand."
"You won't be told when it's happening," he explained calmly. "There will be no scenarios. No warnings. You'll be monitored continuously, and loyalty will be tested in ways you won't anticipate."
The words settled slowly.
"So… I won't know when I'm being tested."
"You will always be being tested," he corrected.
Her chest tightened.
"And how long does this last?" she asked.
"As long as necessary."
She swallowed.
"If I pass," she said carefully, "will the surveillance stop?"
Theon didn't hesitate.
"No."
She stared at him. "Then what's the point?"
"The point," he said evenly, "is not exemption. It's consistency."
She shook her head slightly. "That doesn't make sense."
"It does here," he replied.
He returned to the desk and sat down, folding his hands as if discussing weather rather than something that could decide a person's fate.
"No one is free from surveillance," he went on. "Not the people who work here. Not the people who've been here since before I was born."
She looked at him sharply. "Even you?"
"Yes."
He said it as if stating a law of physics.
"This place functions because nothing is left to assumption," he added. "Trust exists, but verification never stops."
That made her uneasy in a way she couldn't quite articulate.
She shifted in her chair. "And if I fail… some of these tests?"
He considered the question briefly.
"Then you won't be suited for higher responsibilities," he said. "You'll be reassigned. Most likely as a maid."
Her jaw tightened.
"So I'll be punished."
"No," he said. "You'll be placed where the risk is lowest."
That didn't sound better.
She hesitated, then asked, almost absently, "And if I fail all of them?"
The room changed.
Not dramatically. Not visibly.
But something in Theon's posture shifted — subtle, controlled, unmistakable.
He didn't answer right away.
He looked at her, really looked at her, as if assessing whether the question was genuine curiosity or something else entirely.
In his world, that single question carried weight.
People who intended to be loyal did not ask what failure would look like. They didn't imagine it aloud. They didn't test the edges of consequence.
In another context — in another room, with another man — that question alone would have ended the conversation permanently.
Mia watched his silence stretch, unaware of how close she stood to a line she couldn't see.
Then he exhaled, slow and controlled, and composed himself.
"All of my business sense," he said finally, "tells me to sell you off if there isn't even an ounce of loyalty."
The words landed like ice.
Her breath caught.
Before she could speak, he continued.
"But I don't plan to do that."
She stared at him, heart pounding.
"So," he went on, voice steady, "if that were the case… I'd lock you in a room."
Silence.
Mia's thoughts spiraled instantly.
Locked.
Trapped.
Punished.
Her fear surged, overriding everything else. She nodded quickly, reflexively.
"I won't disappoint you," she said. "I promise."
Theon watched her for a moment longer.
"I'm not asking for promises," he said. "I'm asking for consistency."
She nodded again, faster this time.
"Yes. Of course."
He stood, signaling the end of the discussion.
"You may go," he said.
Mia rose unsteadily and left the room, her pulse loud in her ears.
She didn't see the way his expression hardened once the door closed.
She didn't know that he had already regretted answering her last question so plainly.
And she never considered the most important part of that exchange:
He had told her what his instincts demanded — and what he was choosing not to do.
She had only heard what he could do.
By the time she reached her room, her resolve had crystallized into something brittle.
She would not fail.
She would not test boundaries.
She would not ask unnecessary questions again.
And Theon, standing alone in the quiet study, wondered for the first time whether clarity had been a mistake — whether honesty, once again, had only widened the gap between intention and perception.
The loyalty test had begun.
Neither of them recognized it yet.