Waterfall Basin - Canyon Floor, South of Tenzurah Buried Library
The sun had already slanted past the trees by the time Writ stirred.
Not high noon yet, close, though.
The shadows had grown sharper. Longer. Edging in from the side, like silent sentries reclaiming ground.
Kion remained hovering, just a foot or two off the ground, wings tucked in tight, limbs slack in feigned sleep.
But his eyes were open.
Slits, at least. Watching.
Her breath shifted first, a flutter in the tether. Then her hands.
They twitched, searched, found the notebook still at her hip. Her grip tightened.
She dragged it up into her lap with all the care of someone holding something far heavier than paper and thread.
She flipped it open. Began to read.
Kion let the breeze sway him lightly. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe too loudly.
Just hung there, suspended in the air, lazy as a resting bird, while his eyes tracked the slow flick of her fingers across the pages.
She always checked her notes after waking. Always reviewed the lay of things.
She didn’t trust her memory, not when waking often meant dragging herself out of dreams where the line between truth and illusion blurred.
But more than that, she guarded the notebook now.
Fiercely.
Ever since the corridor trick.
He couldn’t blame her.
His illusion had cost her everything. Shaken her to the core.
He’d cast it on her to make her part with the notebook, just long enough to plant a mirage on its pages.
But she’d caught him before he could finish. Half the content remained untouched.
She’d been vigilant ever since.
Any chance to finish the spell was gone.
Closed.
Only half the lie had taken root.
Still, he tried to peek.
Not obtrusively. Just enough.
His body stayed motionless in the air, like sleep hadn't left him yet, but his eyes were sharper now, trained on the spread pages from behind her left shoulder.
Which half was miraged?
Which parts would reflect lies to any outsider?
He scanned the columns of letters and ink trails, watching how the script shimmered subtly, then sharpened.
He found one. The mnemonic line section, marked, sealed, and folded with layered illusion.
Good.
He could live with that.
That much being hidden was enough.
The names, the rituals, the aims, veiled with precision.
He’d still have to mark every other path in the book as compromised.
Every smuggling route, now suspect.
They’d have to reroute everything. Start over.
Euri and Veska weren’t going to be happy.
He exhaled through his nose. Quiet. Small.
They’d blame him, probably. Fenwick would tease first, "Don’t come crying when they pluck your wings, Kion."
That old threat about getting your glimmer peeled off wing by wing.
Or worse, tail-split and dipped in binding sap. Never permanent. Just mean enough to leave a mark.
He shifted a little higher.
The tether hummed with her calm, content that the notebook was still intact. Unchanged.
Guilt prickled under his skin.
His gaze dropped back to the pages.
He traced the mana seams. Checked the weave.
It was clean.
Tight enough to impress even someone trained in illusion affinity. Subtle. Delicate.
You wouldn’t feel the spell unless you knew where to look, and even then, only up close.
Not just cloaked. Disguised.
Camouflaged like dew on a spider’s thread.
One thing was certain.
It didn’t feel human-made. Not in the slightest.
Not at all.
He’d left a mark. an offbeat hum, like silver thread strummed underwater.
A tone only fae magic could make. Humans couldn’t craft it.
He wished that were comforting.
He wished he could believe the Shadow Accord wouldn’t accuse her of casting it.
But he knew better. Acting on their own shadows didn’t need reason. Only suspicion.
And their cruelty... that was common knowledge.
Even Glitterstorm whispered it with caution.
Everyone knew what happened to the blades who failed, or asked questions, or tried to flee.
Burnt out. Broken. Buried with no name.
That was what scared him most.
Because this mission of hers? It reeked.
The Accord had long been sniffing at Bronze, circling the Oathroot with intent to revise.
They’d even issued a veiled threat, “share or suffer.”
He remembered the wording. So clean. So polite.
And Bronze didn’t bend.
They clung to their ideals, blind to the cost.
Blind to what the Accord would do if denied.
That’s why he’d started smuggling knowledge-bearers out.
People.
Anyone in the Bronze Concord who still believed the warning.
Trying to preserve what mattered, history, memory, truths the Accord meant to erase, before the strike came.
Because it would.
It always did.
But how, how, could the Accord be so sure anything worthwhile still existed down there?
In Tenzurah Library.
Once one of Bronze’s largest archives. Now forgotten.
Swallowed whole by soil and time.
The ruin had been eaten alive by an earthquake thirty years ago. Collapsed, buried, turned inside out. Every archivist worth their ink had written it off. Even Bronze had stopped digging.
So why send her?
Why now?
And why send her in alone?
No maps. No layout.
Just her and stone. Just traps and guesswork and dead ends.
Expecting her to find something the Accord wasn’t even sure existed?
It felt like feeding an ancient god with fresh blood.
Like throwing a coin into a bottomless well and hoping it spits out prophecy.
It felt like a suicide mission.
Or is it?
He glanced at her wrist.
The bracelet.
Stone-inlaid. Smooth. Subtle, if you didn’t know what to look for, but clearly locked.
No seam. No latch. Not meant to come off.
It looked harmless enough, even fashionable. The kind of polished-stone cuff that had become a quiet trend in the local markets.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
But he remembered how it had pulsed, faintly, when he first found her.
During that first descent. The magic within had flared against his senses, too loud to ignore.
A flare-tag. A tracker. The kind that kept whispering to some distant relay, feeding updates through the threadlines.
Like the ones used on prisoners too dangerous to roam freely.
His throat tightened.
Why use it on her?
What had she done?
What crime, what failure, what rebellion would warrant this?
And why send her here to search, unless they wanted the ruin to finish what they couldn’t?
A tremor curled down his spine.
His decision to follow, reckless, desperate, half-panicked, suddenly didn’t feel so foolish anymore.
It felt... necessary. The one right move in a mess of too-late guesses.
But now?
Now he had to let her go back.
Back into that place.
Back into the Accord.
Like a good little hound, trotting back into its cage. No leash tugged, just the memory of one.
He stared at her a long moment, then turned his eyes to the sand.
The knot in his chest pulled tighter.
He hoped she wouldn’t be welcomed with a kick this time.
It didn’t sit well with him.
It wouldn’t ever sit well with him.
The tether between them pulsed, just once, quiet. Like a breath held too long.
Maybe... probably...
She didn’t want to go back either.
His voice broke the silence without warning.
Low. Easy. Almost lazy, like he hadn’t been tangled in thoughts at all.
“Say, Lunlun,” he said, still laying back against the air like it was the most relaxing thing in the world.
She turned her head slightly. Tilted it toward him, brow raised.
“If you ever wanted to disappear,” he said, “before they make it official...”
A pause.
“I know a few paths they don’t map.”
He let the words settle. Didn’t push. No pressure.
Just the truth, hung quiet between the breeze and the water.
She didn’t answer right away.
Then her fingers moved. Her left hand lifted.
The bracelet caught the light, dull stone against her wrist. It barely shifted, locked in place.
Her eyes didn’t rise to meet his.
“Can you take this off?”
The question pierced him. Not for what it meant, but for what it held.
That flicker.
That soft, silent spark of hope in the tether. So tentative he almost missed it.
“I can try,” he said, voice just above the wind.
A pause.
Then her hand lowered.
“You’re not sure,” she said quietly.
Her tone didn’t accuse. Didn’t flinch. Just named it.
He didn’t deny it.
“Then no,” she said.
The words cut.
Not sharp. Not cruel. Just clean.
Final.
And he felt the tether breathe again.
A sigh, small and quiet, that carried disappointment. Diminished hope.
She didn’t trust him that much. He knew, and didn’t blame her.
Mirev might be able to crack it. Lurean definitely could, if given the time.
They’d made miracles before. His satchel, after all, was proof of that.
But telling them would mean explaining everything. Would mean breaking the illusion.
Would mean admitting he wasn’t Accord.
Would mean she’d run.
Run far.
Assuming the entire thing was a trap. Another trick.
He let out a long breath, deeper than the desert heat around him, and didn’t bother hiding the weight behind it.
His wings drooped slightly.
The wind shifted. The leaves rustled.
And for now, silence answered them both.
The Silent Writ’s POV
Waterfall Basin - Canyon Floor, South of Tenzurah Buried Library
He offered her a purification slip.
A thin ward-paper etched in dense ink, water filtration rune arranged in a tight spiral. The same kind she’d packed in her bag before the descent.
The one now left behind in the corridor trap, scattered and useless.
He had never offered her one before. Not in the cave.
They had just finished their lunch, another ration bar for her, another cookie for him. She’d eaten mechanically, without appetite.
When she stood to drink from the basin, fed by the same waterfall that had spit them into sunlight. He held out the slip like it was nothing.
“The ruin water might’ve been exposed to the... flower residue,” he said, casually, “better be safe.”
She stared at it.
At the small, clean square of white. The edges sharp. The weight light, but solid in her hand. Real.
Her fingers curled around it slowly. Then she lifted her gaze.
“Why now?”
Kion blinked, “hmm?”
“Why not sooner?”
He tilted his head at her, unreadable, “because... you’re not drinking from my flasks anymore?”
A beat passed, then he shrugged slightly, “at least I know mine’s clean for sure.”
She blinked.
He smiled faintly. Not smug. Just a little too knowing.
“And wouldn’t you have accused me of tampering with it, if I’d handed you one back in the ruin?”
That... That stopped her short. Because he was right.
He was right.
Even he could tell what she’d do. How quickly she’d have recoiled. Accused him of sabotage, of manipulation, of some invisible trick, just for offering help.
She’d done worse, for less.
Writ brushed her fingers over the leather-bound edge of her notebook, grounding herself in the motion.
Then she nodded, and turned toward the river. Sat at the edge. Held the slip to her lips, activated the sigils. Drank through the spellwoven spiral.
It tasted like water.
Just water.
But her thoughts churned deeper than that.
He had appeared out of nowhere, spat by the river like something conjured from the dark. He’d broken the stone floor between them, for her.
She’d forced him to translate the Ancient Morthen she couldn’t read.
Feeble, inconsistent attempts, half-learned, half-wild. She caught the flaws. Accused him of feeding her lies. And when she no longer trusted his words, she copied the contents herself, letter by painful letter.
That was when he made amends. Quietly. Unevenly.
He offered more sections. Passages she hadn’t marked. Things she’d missed. Things she might’ve needed.
He'd offered food. Water. Neither of which poisoned her.
He’d given her something to hold on to, a thread, a lead, when the truth door demanded two people. When she couldn’t even attempt it alone. He’d stood at the other side and waited. Let her fumble for the words.
He'd shielded her from the flower’s mana, the 'Bli-' something he still wouldn’t name. Tainted, potent, coiling. He hadn’t explained, not fully. But he’d kept it from reaching her.
He’d known the river might be a way out. He’d taken that chance. With her in the same bubble. Risked it. Rode the current.
He’d carried her out.
Alive.
Safe.
Not alone.
He could’ve left her there. Let her rot in that labyrinth of stone and earth, forgotten beneath the dust. Buried by her own suspicion and pride.
But he hadn’t.
He hadn’t denied he was Accord. If anything, he made it clear he ranked higher, above her clearance, above the punishment line. Said their name aloud like it couldn’t touch him. Like it wasn’t a word that could destroy her.
And he’d offered her a way out.
A chance she wasn’t sure she trusted.
Not with the tracker still snug at her wrist, silent, unreadable. Who knew what else it did?
They both knew another pyre waited beyond the ruin. One carved with her name. And she’d walk into it alone.
Another report. Another round of questions, as if she’d lit the match herself. Another line of tests, dressed up like mercy but reeking of smoke.
Another thorn march.
Does this ruin count as one? It felt like one.
A trial never meant to be survived. No backup, no warning. An assignment steeped in silence. The kind you don't came back from.
But she had come back.
She was back.
Writ pushed herself up from the river’s edge and walked back toward the tree whose shade had offered her rest earlier.
The grass there was sparse, sun-dried and brittle, but the bark felt warm at her back. Familiar, in a strange, primitive way.
She sat down. Let the weight of her body settle.
They told her to return immediately once the mission was done. No delay, no deviation. If she fled now, while her tracker was out of mana, they’d know. They’d come for her.
They wanted the report fresh. Raw. Before she had time to doctor it. Before she had time to think too hard.
But what if this red-winged creature floating above her was their eyes? What if he reported something else?
That could be worse.
Because he wasn’t some underling. He wasn’t a pawn.
He was deeper. Trusted enough to break protocol and walk beside her unannounced. Strong enough to survive the maze that nearly broke her. Powerful enough to stand against the politics that hollowed her out.
If he submitted a version... it would carry more weight.
But, because it was him, she might be able to negotiate that weight.
He’d invested too much already. Said too much. Stepped too close. Done more than any monitor should have.
He said he cared. Said he wanted her alive. Said he wanted her free.
Are you really going to protect me? Is any of this real? Or just a strategy? Do I get to live?
Her thoughts looped in fragments, scenes from the ruin, flashing like shrapnel through her memory.
The summoned mana, sharpened like blades. The venom in his voice when he stood at the truth door.
"I want to hurt you, Lunlun. I’m here to watch you break. To make sure that when this place dies... you die with it."
And yet, none of it meant anything. Not really. Not to him. He could hurl those words like blades, then smile a breath later. Keep the pressure on without drawing blood.
That’s probably how he survived the Accord.
Then came her own mistakes. Her own unfiltered blunders.
“I obeyed the people I serve. My loyalty’s never strayed.”
The orb turned red.
“Are you Accord, Kion?”
And the moment exhaustion split his patience at the seams.
“But if I were here to end you? You’d already be dead. Day one. No games.”
It wasn’t a threat. Just truth. Measured. Spent.
After that, he never pressed. Never demanded. Just... stayed. Quiet, steady.
Feeding her like some silent mother bird, strange, meticulous, unasked for. Nothing tender, but constant.
Keeping her alive, not loyal.
She could probably take her chances with him.
“Kion,” she called, tilting her head toward the canopy, where he hovered half-distracted, peering up at a low-hanging fruit.
He looked down, met her eyes, “yes?”
He descended, slow and deliberate. Hovered for a moment, then came to rest at her eye level
She held his gaze. Her tone steady. Firm.
“What should I say in my report?”
He blinked.
“What?”
She waited.
This answer, she knew, would be official.