Warm, familiar. The steam fogged her lashes.
Another hand lifted a cup across from her.
Arkwyn. Quiet, watching, calm.
"Didn’t think you’d come," he said, voice steady as the thread between them.
She opened her mouth to ask. The thread? The invitation? Why now?
The door slammed open.
“There you are,” familiar voice. Rotten smile, “so this is where you’ve been hiding.”
Her teacup shattered.
She turned to Arkwyn, pleading.
But his eyes were empty. Not closed, gone. Hollow sockets like bone lanterns. The sockets black and wet.
His smile tore too wide, split skin dragging to his ears. His jaw unhinged, and wax dripped down where his face used to be.
She stumbled back. Her body--
Too small.
Her legs couldn’t find their weight. Her arms hung lighter, narrower.
Why are my hands so small?
Her hair brushed past her elbows, long, back-length, unbound. She hadn’t worn it that way in years.
It clung to her neck, her shoulders, like it belonged to someone else. Like she was someone else.
The window. She ran.
Fingers fumbled at the latch. Too slow, trembling, slippery.
A hand yanked her back. Fingers at her face.
The iron gag slammed into her mouth.
It scraped her teeth raw as it locked in place. Too big for her jaw. Blood slicked her tongue before she even screamed.
Hands twisted her arms behind her. Slender wrists bound tight. Rough rope. Frayed edges biting into skin that hadn’t even stopped growing yet.
Her feet were pulled together next. Tied. Ankles bent unnaturally. One knot too high. One too low. Her body jolted with every breath.
She thrashed.
The voice leaned in, breath warm against her temple. The stench of his cigarette clung to her, sharp, sour, inescapable. It filled her nose before he even spoke.
“Don’t fuss. It’ll only make it tighter.”
The leash came last.
Wound slow. Tightened with intention.
It pulsed with that rune-sick glow. A warning.
Don’t stray. Don’t run. Don’t breathe wrong.
The collar locked with a click that echoed.
“Too tight?”
“Good.”
“It should be.”
Her lungs cramped.
The leash jerked once.
She couldn’t pull in a full breath. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t see.
The blindfold was thick. Smelled of sweat and old leather. Pressed so close it felt like her eyes were gone.
No light.
No sky.
Only darkness, and the sound of her own choking.
Her knees buckled. The leash held.
He dragged her by the hair, fist tangled in the length of it, yanking her head back with every step.
Her body scraped through the dirt, spine jolting on roots and stone. Slow, deliberate, cruel. Each pull felt designed to bruise. Designed to break.
"You're gonna love this," he sneered.
“No audience this time,” he said, almost fond, “just the forest, and the silence.”
She clawed at the air behind her back. Felt rope. Skin. Rope again.
Can’t--
The leash jerked once more.
And held.
She jolted awake with a ragged breath.
The silence around her was total. Familiar. The faint hum of the wardlines etched into the walls vibrated softly beneath it, constant, static, safe.
The blanket was too warm, too close. Twisted tight around her ankles, like restraints. Her breath caught again. Her hands clawed at the covers before she could stop herself, shoving them off, sitting up.
She reached for it, her neck. Nothing there.
No leash. No cuffs. No blindfold.
But her chest still heaved like she couldn’t draw enough air.
It took a full minute before she remembered where she was.
The room hadn’t changed.
Cool stone walls, still and dry. Ward sigils faintly glowing at the doorframe. Her desk untouched. The tea flask empty beside it. All static, all still, all hers.
And yet, her body didn't believe it.
She stumbled to her feet.
And ran.
Not like the quiet, clean habits she’d trained into her bones. Not the practiced, measured movements they demanded.
No.
She ran.
Half-blind across the chamber. Reached the basin. Splashing water before her hands even steadied. Ice-cold. Sharp. She bent over it, gasping. Let it hit her skin. Let it anchor her.
Again.
Again.
Again.
She gripped the edge of the basin so tight her knuckles blanched.
Her reflection in the water didn’t look back.
Still not enough. Still not safe.
She turned toward the window.
The frame creaked as she shoved it open. No hesitation, no thought. Just up.
Her fingers scraped bark. She climbed like a girl half her size. Fast, sloppy. Her foot slipped once, bark peeling under her sole. Her pulse roared in her ears. Her breath still shallow, too sharp, too fast.
She didn’t stop.
Higher. Higher. Light. Wind. Open air.
She reached the roof.
Swung herself over the ledge. Scraped her elbow. Didn’t care.
She sat.
Back against stone.
Knees pulled close.
Sky above. Open, wide, real.
Only then did she close her eyes.
Inhale. Hold.
It had passed.
Exhale. Hold.
She made it out.
Inhale. Hold.
He’s no longer here.
Exhale. Hold
She’s hers alone.
She didn’t know when the sky began to brighten.
But the change came gently, like it didn’t want to startle her.
The roof tiles beneath her were still cool with night, the edge of dawn tracing light along the horizon in quiet pinks and blues. The kind of stillness only found at the cusp of day, before birds, before bells, before the world woke up and remembered how to breathe.
She shifted slightly. Her back had stiffened from the stone. But her limbs had stopped shaking.
Just a dream, she reminded herself. Just a nightmare.
That voice didn’t belong here. Not anymore. Not in this city, not in this life.
She exhaled and stood slowly. Her joints ached in protest, but it was a good kind of pain. The kind that told her she was still here. Still hers, still awake.
The sun crept higher behind her shoulders as she descended the outer staircase, feet silent on worn steps. She returned to her room without urgency. The quiet had settled into her bones. The aftermath always did.
The doorwatch glyph glowed faint, untouched.
Inside, the room was unchanged.
Except for the flask. Half full, still warm.
And the tea.
She stared at it.
Steam no longer rose from the lip, but the faint scent still clung. Earthy, sharp, sweet. Her hand hovered above it.
A mistake, she thought.
That was the mistake.
Letting herself sip it. Letting warmth reach past her guard. Letting the thread between them hum just a little too close. That kind of comfort always came with a cost.
She hadn’t dreamt like that in over a decade.
Not since her last detainment. Not since she learned to sleep with one eye open, body taut and locked even in unconsciousness.
No dreams, no nightmares. No room for either.
The tea had made her soft.
She stepped back from the flask as if it might burn her, even now.
It didn’t. But the memory did.
The nightmare hadn’t even distorted it. Every detail had been real. Her wrists, too small for standard restraints. The stink of smoke on his breath. The leash that didn’t just hold, but threatened.
She rubbed her arms once and turned to the basin.
Water. Cold, brutal.
She splashed her face until the skin stung.
Then again.
And again.
Until her hands stopped shaking.
The mirror above the washbasin gave no comfort. She studied her reflection anyway. Blank expression, short hair damp against her jaw. Blades of it stuck out like she hadn’t slept, which was true. Not really.
No length to hide behind. No strands to cling or tangle. Not like in the dream, where it had brushed her elbows, yanked tight, dragged like reins chained to her skull.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
Just short, uneven edges now. A deliberate cut. Safer that way.
Her gaze dropped to the wig box.
She hesitated.
Inside, her usual field wig waited, soft and dark, back-length, carefully layered to sway in the breeze.
She used to like long hair. Not for vanity, but for the feel of it. The weight, the illusion of softness.
But now, even just brushing the strands brought back the sensation of it being yanked, twisted, used to drag her through dirt.
She snapped the lid shut. Left the wig behind.
Let the mirror show what remained.
One month. That’s how long it had been.
A month of patrols and silent streets. Routine check-ins. Sweep the sector, log the aetherline, watch and walk and breathe and repeat. No deviation, no message, no mission.
The Accord hadn’t called her once.
She didn’t know if it was mercy, punishment, or something worse.
Maybe they were waiting, measuring. Watching to see what she’d do without instructions. Or maybe they were giving her enough rope to hang herself.
She’d learned not to guess.
She adjusted the collar of her coat, fastened the clasp. Not armor, not quite. But enough.
A knock came.
One short, four in quick succession.
She stilled.
Grade One signal. Downgraded briefing.
Her mouth thinned. They really did love their symmetry.
Her first mission after Thorn Marching had been the same grade. Same rhythm. Almost the same knock. Back then, she’d barely been able to walk straight. Every movement had screamed.
This time she was standing.
She was calm.
She was not the same.
She crossed to the door. Checked the glyph, still unbroken.
A note was tucked just beneath it. Paper, formal. Folded once, sharply.
Handler brief required. Virelen main branch.
No room for questions.
She pocketed the note and left.
This wasn’t a patrol.
This was an answer.
And she was walking straight into it.
Kion's POV
Personal Chamber, East Wing, Kesherra Basin
He felt it like a blade through fog.
Not a pull. Not a whisper.
A snap.
The tether between them flared. Sharp, raw, and full of something deeper than pain.
Not injury.
Worse.
Terror.
The kind that lived in the bones. That curdled breath. That unspooled the soul.
And it was happening now.
Kion froze.
Not because it was dangerous.
But because it wasn’t supposed to happen.
Not here. Not now.
She was supposed to be safe.
Still in Virelen. Still under orders to rest.
One month of no missions. He’d checked. He’d watched.
Because the last time he didn’t—
She vanished.
She should be out.
Safe. Whole.
Not confined. Not hunted.
And yet, this.
Whatever it was, it screamed louder than anything he’d ever felt through the thread.
Louder than containment.
Louder than her silence.
Louder than the broken echo of her last goodbye.
He straightened.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
Something was wrong.
He could feel it like nails raking down his ribs.
His fingers twitched, instinct before thought, sending a pulse-note to Seraithe.
Short. Coded. Urgent.
I’m coming.
Then he stood there, utterly still.
Not because he was calm.
But because if he moved, he might shatter something.
He wasn’t ready.
That was the problem.
She wasn’t supposed to feel terror.
Not her.
He paced.
Once.
Twice.
Stopped.
His breath came shallow, wrong in his lungs. His heartbeat stumbled like it didn’t belong to his body.
What did they do to her this time?
He slammed a drawer open. Locator scroll. Tracking lens. Spare charm cores. All crammed into his satchel with the grace of a landslide.
This wasn’t routine.
This wasn’t a warning.
This wasn’t suspicion.
It was a plea for help.
A flare in the dark.
Not meant for him.
But he’d felt it.
And now it lived in him like a brand.
His legs moved before his mind caught up.
Fenwick's chamber.
He stopped at the door.
Just for a breath.
Just long enough to realize his hands were shaking.
The echo of her fear still clung to the tether.
Sharper than steel.
Deeper than air.
His wings twitched, unsettled, unreadable.
He opened the door.
“Fenwick.”
No knock. No delay.
The door cracked too loud, too fast, slamming against the wall like it had been holding in tension of its own.
Light flared. Wards shimmered.
Fenwick sat up instantly, blinking against the burst of glow, hair rumpled, scroll crumpled in his hand.
“Kion? What the--?”
But Kion was already halfway across the room. His hands were in the satchel, his mind miles away.
“I need you to cover my work.”
Fenwick stared, “what?”
Kion didn’t answer. Not properly. Just kept digging through his things like they’d betrayed him.
The order of his kit was wrong, everything out of place. Like his thoughts.
Like the tether.
“Three days. Maybe seven. Ten, if I have to go deep. Or fifteen. I don’t know yet.”
He grabbed a locator scroll. Shoved it back. Snatched another. Burned through each movement with clipped, urgent rhythm.
“Kion,” Fenwick said, slower now, wary, “it’s not even dawn. What’s going on?”
“I’m leaving,” Kion said, voice flat, “something came up.”
He tossed his minified-seal from the satchel onto the desk. The mana flared faintly on contact, the seal unfurling to its full size with a quiet snap of authority.
“You’re Featherglint for a reason,” Kion said, voice low but even, “you handle the paperwork better than I do.”
Fenwick frowned, “you don’t hand your duties to me. Does Euri know about this? What is this--”
“I’ll talk to him when I come back.”
Satchel closed with a snap. Kion slung it over his shoulder, wings flexing once, tight and controlled.
Fenwick stood. “You’re acting off. Is something--”
Kion cut him off with a glance, a pause stretched just long enough to sting.
“Maybe.”
It was the only truth he could afford.
Not a lie. Not the whole story.
Just a sliver. Just enough.
Fenwick stepped forward, “you’re not saying what this is.”
“Won’t or can’t?” Fenwick pressed.
“Both.”
Kion turned for the door.
“You know Euri’s going to skin me for this,” Fenwick muttered.
Kion didn’t stop. “Tell him I said it’s worth it.”
He walked out without looking back.
But the tether still hummed under his ribs, muted now, like a bruise not fully formed.
He didn’t know what waited at the other end of that thread.
Only that he had to reach her before it tore again.
The door shut behind him, not loud this time. Just final.
Fenwick's POV
Personal Chamber, East Wing, Kesherra Basin
Fenwick stood there, still barefoot, still blinking against the aftershock.
He looked down at the seal, glowing faintly beside his ledger.
A chill moved through him.
He didn’t know what could make Kion look like that.
But whatever it was...
He wasn’t sure what version of Kion would come back.
This marks the end of Volume 1.
Wings Between Silence!
I hope I’ll see you again in Volume 2. Where the path narrows, the past breathes from beneath the dust, and every step takes them deeper than they’ve gone before.