There was movement, not from outside the grid, but from within.
She turned, blade halfway drawn again, but it was Junior.
He blinked, his body jerking as he regained control. A groggy, awkward push as he sat upright, disoriented. She froze, realization flooding her.
She hadn't finished dismantling the weave.
He’d broken free, on his own, without any help.
That fumbling boy had breached the memory trap. Alone. Something she hadn’t managed. Not without help.
She pressed the thought down. Refused to let it stir resentment or shame. Instead, she turned back to the construct and resumed cutting.
Until he spoke.
“W-what happened?”
Her eyes snapped back to him, sharp.
She didn’t answer. She shoved the storm of frustration behind her ribs and focused again.
Junior shuffled toward Reck, shook his shoulder, then tried Fane. Neither stirred.
His attention went to the tree, the size of it, “this... this tree’s too big,” he murmured, “it wasn’t supposed to grow like this. Must be... the impact, or the overload, or...”
He kept mumbling. Too loud, too cheerful. Like he didn’t understand the weight of what just happened, the scale of how wrong things had gone. Writ’s teeth clenched.
She kept working, detached a mana filament with steady fingers. Then felt him behind her, too close.
“Wait, you know how to disarm memory traps? That’s so cool. I’ve never seen one before. Do you think I can--”
She stood. Her fist moved before the words could.
Fist met cheekbone with a clean, brutal crack. Junior dropped backward with a stunned gasp.
Writ followed, grabbed him by the collar, hauled him upright again.
“Look around you,” her voice was quiet, icy, “look what you’ve done.”
She gestured around the room with a sweep of her arm. The warped trees, the broken stones, the corpse, the unconscious teammates.
Junior’s lips parted. “I-I didn’t mea--”
“No one cares what you meant. They’ll exile you if you’re lucky, beat you if you’re not. Back to Treshfold, or worse, the Thorn Marching.”
She let that hang.
“Why do you think I was sentenced to it?”
They went still. Even the trap hummed quieter.
“No one will catch you if you fall,” she said, “so don’t give them a reason to.”
Then she let go.
Turned back to the pillar, kneeling again, “now help me fix this, or shut up.”
Junior blinked, still half-stunned. He reached up, touched the sore spot on his cheek. Then focused at her again. Actually focused
Then he moved. Didn’t argue, didn’t complain. He knelt beside her, on the opposite side of the containment field’s pillar.
“I’m... sorry,” he said quietly, “they said they liked me more when I acted cheerful. Said I made things lighter.”
“Eyes on the trap,” she muttered, “hands where they count. Mouth for analysis.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
He leaned forward, inspecting the exposed anchor mesh. His brows furrowed, “This seems like the construct stabilizer. These coils... they’re stacked. I’ll try to detach them. If I find the anchor cord, I’ll rip it out.”
She glanced up, nodded once, “do it.”
He got to work.
The snare fought him, hissing, sparking. Mana coiled against his skin like fire. He grunted but didn’t stop.
They worked in tandem, silent save for the crackle of arcane backlash, the snap of glyphs being unraveled.
Eventually, Junior spoke again, “I’ve cleared the coil stack, but the base line won’t break. It’s enhanced, layered with some kind of magical reinforcement.”
Writ didn’t look up until her section was stable. Then she turned, saw the glowing brick still rooted to the core.
“Leave it. Unless you brought a neutralizer.”
Junior’s face lit with hope. He scrambled toward his gear, found his bag, then dug through the pouches, pulled out a slim black case.
Inside, a surgical array of mana scalers, piercers, and a neutralizing wand.
“This one?”
She nodded, “continue.”
And internally, she noted it. Approval. Quiet, but real. Not many rookies packed neutralizers.
She had her own, of course, but she hadn’t planned to waste it on him.
Now she wouldn’t have to.
They worked quietly again. The air was thick with tension and ozone.
After a long stretch, she finally spoke, “don’t waste your energy being a bubbly fool. They’ll like you more when you’re useful,” she paused, “and you’ll keep your head intact.”
Junior’s fingers stilled for a second.
"...So it’s true,” he whispered, “you survived Thorn Marching.”
She didn’t respond, and he didn’t push.
They kept working, surrounded by the slow unravel of the construct.
Now with steadier hands.
And quieter breath.
Writ let Junior disassemble the final node.
She watched him closely. Her gaze still made his hands tremble, but less than before.
He removed the last connector from the grid. The disarmed components piled beside him, almost to his knee. He glanced at her, silent.
She gave a single nod.
The trap’s pulse, once a constant hum beneath their skin, had been fading throughout the dismantling. Now, it was gone. Completely inert.
Only time remained. Fane and Reck would have to wake naturally. Forcing the process risked cognitive backlash, or worse.
“Stay here,” she ordered.
Junior nodded, standing guard near the others, his movements stiff but obedient. He scanned the area like a child mimicking a soldier.
Two hours, give or take. Faster than she’d expected.
She didn’t say anything, but gave him a silent nod of approval, tucked somewhere behind her eyes.
Then she stepped over the grid's perimeter, where it once had been, and approached the body of her attacker.
She could feel Junior watching her, tracking her movements. She let it be.
Kneeling, she rotated the man’s body and peeled back the hood that had concealed his face. No recognition sparked. Just a young face, sharp-boned and clean.
She searched him methodically. Clothes, seams, hidden folds. Checked his belongings, his wounds, any brand or sigil on his skin. Nothing gave away his origin. No crest, no faction, no name.
Just a smudge of black glitter clinging to his wrist, like ash laced with mana. It held fast, as if tattooed, but offered no meaning she could read. A dead trail.
Writ stood. Dismissed it with a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.
Then she turned and headed toward the northern hallway, the too-short corridor that had masked the room she missed.
The hidden door was still slightly ajar. She entered.
The space was cramped, the kind that wasn’t meant to exist on official maps. A relay node blinked faintly on the back wall, flanked by a table, scattered chairs, and a stack of unused ones shoved into a corner. Black glitter dusted the floor, the same strange residue she’d seen both beneath the hidden door and clinging to the dead man’s wrist.
Decorative? Alchemical? She couldn’t tell.
Signs of habitation were everywhere, blankets slung over the back of a chair, half-finished mugs on the table, coffee stains dried into wood grain. Someone had been living here. Watching, listening.
Possibly even since before she’d scouted the building three days ago.
The attacker hadn’t been alone. That much was obvious now. Too many chairs out of place, too many used mugs. But why he’d struck alone... she didn’t know.
Maybe the others had left to call for backup. Maybe they’d fled once things went south. Either way, both possibilities spelled risk.
If reinforcements were on the way, they had little time. If the others escaped, then news of Relay Point Nine’s destruction and their presence, was likely spreading already.
Especially after that argument. Loud and exposed. They’d practically broadcasted their names into the walls.
She stepped toward the relay node, blade ready.
Then it blinked.
Incoming transmission.
She froze.
No defense sigil. No counterspell glyph. Just a raw, open channel. They must’ve assumed the transmitter was safe, always hidden.
Handler Tiran's word echoed in her mind.
"But something’s still transmitting. Someone reopened it, and someone else might be listening. If you can identify who, do it quietly.
This might be her only chance to hear who was on the other end.
Worst-case scenario, her trace was flagged. But if they’d been listening earlier, they already had more than enough.
She took a deep breath and tapped the beacon .
A distorted voice crackled through the speaker, static-laced and synthetic.
"Sparklefish, report?"
She hovered a breath too long over the node. No encryption. No challenge code? That was either idiotic, or deliberate.
But Tiran had said to track the listener if she could. And bait or not, they were still talking.
She could let it go quiet, or she could risk it, and listen while she still had the chance.
Sparklefish had probably overheard the argument. Loud, sloppy, names tossed like coins, aliases, real ones, maybe both. No doubt they knew the team was here. No doubt they had details.
And that argument had happened hours ago. Two, maybe three. Sparklefish must’ve left just before then. Likely around the time the man attacked her. Whoever was speaking now had to know that. They would’ve reported their escape. Maybe even the trap.
Then there was the door, left ajar, not even shut. The illusion dropped. No attempt to hide the room anymore.
It was totally a honeypot. A baited line. A test if she'd take the bait.
"Sparklefish?"
She glanced around the space, eyes sharp, searching. No backup relay, no buried wardline, no tracker shimmer. Just the one node, open and humming.
They couldn’t see her. Couldn't confirm who answered. Only that the transmission had been received.
So long as she said nothing... they’d have to guess.
Or so she thought.
The transmitter buzzed. Static for three seconds. Then the voice crackled again.
"The Silent Writ. You're listening, aren't you?"
She didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Just stared.
She didn’t need to speak, her lack of answer was enough.
For a moment, the soft hum of the node was the only sound in the room.
Her finger hovered just above the runes. One tap, one word, and she could try to spin the truth into something else. A bluff. A name drop. A lie.
But she didn’t.
Because this wasn’t just a guess. They knew. Whoever was on the other side, they already knew.
Her silence stretched long. A breath became a pause. A pause, a verdict.
She could almost feel it: the moment her stillness became confirmation. The moment the name they'd been testing snapped into place with the certainty of a puzzle piece.
Writ.
The Silent Writ.
Of course that sparklefish had relayed the info. They knew. And now, they knew she knew.
Her jaw clenched.
The room suddenly felt exposed, too open.
They’d been watching. Maybe still were.
She stepped back from the relay, deliberate and slow.
Not answering was the smart move. She told herself that.
Better to give nothing than too much.
But even nothing could be something. An answer loud enough to echo through the wires.
She reached forward and unhooked the mana fuses, one by one. The glow flickered. The signal hub tried to stabilize, failed. Sparks danced up its spine.
Her fingers moved in sequence, twist, break, slide, disconnecting the channel’s memory cache. The relay hissed in protest.
She plunged her blade into the base plate. The crystal under the relay shrieked, fractured, and exploded in a flash of dying light. Black shimmer dust sprayed her boots.
Stillness held the room.
She turned without a word and walked out of the room.
They needed to move.
Now.
Writ stepped out of the hidden room, boots brushing black glitter across the tile.
Reck and Fane were both awake now, groggy, bruised, but conscious. Junior looked up from where he’d been tending Fane’s splint.
Writ didn’t sit. Didn’t soften.
“We’re compromised,” she said.
Three heads turned. No questions, just alert.
“Relay node was active. Someone answered. They knew my name.”
Beat.
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“And probably yours too.”
That got them.
Reck cursed under his breath. Fane’s jaw clenched.
“Who was on the other end?” Fane asked, already rising.
Writ shook her head, "didn't say. Didn’t need to.”
She held up a fractured chip of the relay’s inner shell, “I fried it, but not fast enough. They might’ve already relayed coordinates.”
“How long do we have?” Reck asked.
Writ’s eyes narrowed, “depends if they’re nearby or waiting to converge.”
She glanced at Fane and Reck, both upright now, but their focus still lagged, movements slow. They’d need time to fully recalibrate.
“I’ll check for mana residue. If I’m not back in ten, leave. Activate the seedwake pods. Meet at the watchtower.”
They nodded in unison.
But Reck hesitated, “why the watchtower? Can’t we just go back? The mission’s done.”
She paused.
“Have any of you failed a mission?”
Fane frowned, “but we didn’t. We planted the pod. It’ll detonate soon.”
“Incognito. That was the order,” she snapped, “they know we're here, our names. That’s half-failure in the Accord’s book. Not even half-success.”
Their faces paled.
“I need to prep you. So you don’t get us killed saying the wrong thing.”
She turned. Didn’t look back. And walked faster.
Two hours, or even more. A head start, long enough to matter. They’d left before the blast. Deduced who she was from a nickname and a shout.
And that man in the trap? A sacrifice. Meant to delay. Maybe to watch.
And they danced for them.
Loudly.