Kion’s POV

  Waterfall Basin - Canyon Floor, South of Tenzurah Buried Library

  Sometimes, Writ asked him questions like she thought he had answers.

  Real answers, like she thought he was the mayfly’s opposite.

  It would’ve been funny if it didn’t sit so close to tragic.

  Writ’s voice had been steady when she asked, serious, but not cutting.

  Not this time.

  “What should I say in my report?”

  Kion had no idea how the Accord worked beyond scraps, not really.

  But now she was looking at him like a peer in some co-authored research.

  Like he had a say. Like his words could unmake the scaffold they’d hung her from.

  Even the tether pulsed with something fragile, a hope blooming too close to something he didn’t dare step on.

  So he didn’t answer.

  Not right away.

  She must’ve noticed the delay.

  Her voice returned, softer. Flattened.

  “You’re going to file a report, right?”

  He combed through his thoughts, stalling a beat too long again.

  “Eventually,” he said, “yeah.”

  She fidgeted, fingers tapping the strap that held her notebook to her hip.

  That motion alone felt louder than her voice.

  “To who?”

  He turned to look at her, really look.

  She didn’t turn away, but she didn’t press either. Just let him weigh the air.

  He gave the honest answer, slowly, “to people who’ve been waiting too long.”

  That earned no visible reaction.

  Just a slight tilt of her head, her eyes still tracing the waterline like it held the truth she needed.

  Then, "what are you going to say about me?”

  Her voice was quiet, but steady. A pause. Then she added, just as level, “you’re the one with more access. What story we’re telling? Because if we tell different ones... I die.”

  The question landed too close to the bone.

  His fingers stopped. Breath, too.

  Right.

  He had told her he was the eye. That he'd been sent to observe. Monitor.

  Stars, why did she have to remember that now?

  She didn’t even look at him.

  His voice stayed even, “do you understand what you're asking me right now?”

  Her gaze finally met his.

  “I know. Manipulation of mission intel. Guaranteed corrective action.”

  A breath, a pause.

  “Didn’t you say I shouldn’t report you?”

  “So tell me.”

  She said it calmly, but the weight was too much. His hand half-lifted, almost to his forehead, before he stilled.

  Then she said the quiet truth, “you can decide if I live or burn.”

  The tether flickered.

  Not with fear, she’d moved past fear. It was resignation now.

  The surrender of someone handing over the scalpel, knowing it could go either way.

  And he wasn’t even part of Accord. He wasn’t anyone they trusted.

  Wasn’t someone she could afford to trust if she knew the full truth.

  He could see it now, her hand curling back.

  The scalpel turning. She’d plunge it the second he gave her reason.

  She should.

  Maybe it was time to let the whole charade crumble, let her see who he actually was.

  Not Accord. Not theirs.

  Not safe.

  He ran a hand through his hair, “look,” he began, “Lunlun, I don’t think--”

  “I’m not asking you to lie,” she cut in, “just... tell me what you’re going to say. About me. About the ruin. About the vault. About the truth door. About the flower.”

  Her gaze dropped again. Not hostile, not even guarded.

  Just… tired. Too sharp to be unthinking, too dull to cut anything anymore.

  “I’m not sure what version they’ll want to hear.”

  A pause.

  “Or what version will keep me breathing.”

  He had no answer for that.

  Too many words tried to push through. Truths, excuses, half-measures.

  None of them felt clean enough. Not for her.

  She leaned back before he could speak.

  Shoulders settling against the rough bark of the tree behind her.

  One arm lifted, blocking the sun from her eyes like it offended her.

  “I’ll follow whatever you report,” she said, “doesn’t matter anymore.”

  And just like that, the moment passed.

  The truth stayed buried.

  He didn’t have the heart to give it voice, not when she’d laid herself bare like this, trying to hold onto him with hands that had nothing left to offer but trust.

  Her voice didn’t carry bitterness.

  Only the dry echo of something emptied.

  “I was already dead on day one, after all.”

  No drama. No self-pity.

  It was simply what she believed.

  Kion felt it in the tether, echoing back through her stillness, her slow breath, the unspoken grief buried beneath compliance.

  She meant it.

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  Truly thought she’d died back then, when she first stepped into the ruin.

  The rest of this was just delay.

  She believed she owed him her survival.

  And she hated that.

  But she wasn’t fighting it anymore.

  Because to her, that was the shape of mercy.

  His jaw tightened.

  Not in anger. Not at her.

  At what they’d done to her.

  At the scaffolding that shaped her into this.

  At himself, for hiding, for watching her break.

  “You’re not dead.”

  The words left too fast. Too sharp. But there was no taking them back.

  He softened the second breath, “not to me.”

  And then, quieter, “and I’ll give my all to make it stay that way.”

  No charm. No promises made to manipulate. Just the truth, bare and plain and quiet.

  Because he had left everything behind to follow her into that place.

  He’d set aside every duty, every tie that once held him elsewhere, just to keep her walking. Breathing. Alive.

  Now the words caught weight.

  Because even if he didn’t belong to the Accord, even if he couldn’t promise her safety with rank or allegiance, he had already chosen to walk beside her. Long before this moment.

  Even if she turned from him.

  Even if she never trusted him again.

  Even if she marched straight back into the pyre that waited beyond the cliffs.

  He would walk beside her. If she let him.

  Not because it was noble. Not because it was wise.

  But because it was her.

  The Silent Writ’s POV

  Waterfall Basin - Canyon Floor, South of Tenzurah Buried Library

  She didn’t respond at first.

  Didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe.

  The words just hovered there, too sharp to be comforting, too soft to dismiss.

  He hadn’t struck her for asking. Hadn’t walked away. Hadn’t undone every quiet act of care he’d offered her since the ruin.

  Other Watchers would have.

  That alone was a good start.

  He fumbled through his answer, slow, unsure. Maybe no one had ever asked him this. Maybe no one had lived long enough after daring to ask.

  But she was still alive. And he’d said he’d give his all to make it stay that way.

  Another promise. Too sweet. Too kind. She wished she could believe it, just for a breath.

  The words echoed in her.

  He meant them. At least right now.

  And that... she hated. Hated that she could feel it, solid, steady, not angled like a ploy. No traps in his voice. Just truth, raw and almost painful in its clarity.

  Maybe he would change. Maybe he’d hand her over the second the winds turned.

  But for now, he meant it. And for now, she let herself rest in that.

  She settled beside him with a quiet exhale, arms folding over her knees.

  Kion’s voice broke the silence, measured, but not cold, “there are things you shouldn’t mention. In your report.”

  A pause stretched between them.

  She reached for her notebook by habit, then her hand stalled.

  Her pen was gone. Her bag was gone. Of course. She’d lost both when the isolation trap snapped shut and took everything.

  Her fingers hovered, then withdrew.

  “Don’t write it,” Kion said, “they’ll see it. You’re submitting the whole thing, right?”

  She gave a small nod.

  He was right.

  She’d already copied dozens of pages from both the Oathroot and Bronze Concord vaults into that notebook. Tiran had told her to report immediately. They’d take the notebook the moment she returned. There’d be no time to reframe anything.

  The Accord wouldn’t give her that time. Not now, not when she was being watched. Any ripped pages, redacted lines, or last-minute additions would only raise suspicion.

  She’d lived through that lesson before.

  “Right,” she closed the notebook and buckled it back to her hip.

  Kion nodded.

  “I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again. Don’t mention me. At all. Whoever accepted your report might not know I’m here. If they think you had outside help... well, that’s bad.”

  “Solo op. No one else. Noted.”

  Then she blinked, frowning, “what about the truth door? It needed two people. They’d know that.”

  A flicker passed over Kion’s face, “Why do you think so?”

  “My handler said they had coordinates, not entry,” she said, arms folding, “that’s unusually precise. They wouldn’t give coordinates unless someone already scouted it.”

  Kion didn’t answer immediately. His posture shifted, more alert, more calculating.

  “They know what’s buried,” she added, “and exactly what intel they want.”

  A short silence passed between them.

  “They also knew about the underground river.”

  He blinked, a touch too long.

  “Then they’re probably assuming it works like the truth doors still used in Bronze,” Kion murmured, “not this older version.”

  She tilted her head, “different mechanism?”

  “Same mechanism,” he said, “but different requirements. The Bronze doors don’t limit participants. The conduit space is larger, groups can enter together. Each person just says three truths. It’s scalable. Doesn’t matter how many.”

  Writ stared at him, “how do you know that?”

  He shrugged, grinning, “special information privileges?”

  She scoffed. He chuckled.

  “What about the truths I said?” Her voice had dropped. “Can’t exactly put those in a report.”

  Kion’s voice softened. “That’s something only you can decide. You’re the one submitting it.”

  “Right...” she sighed. “I need something that sounds real. Convincing. But empty.”

  “Unless you take my offer,” he added casually. “Then you wouldn’t need to think about any of this.”

  She shot him a glare. He took off, fluttering upward like the smugest bird in the canopy.

  By the time he looped back down to the branch above her, he was grinning again, “oh! And don’t mention the flower. At all. Say even the name, and you’ll get flagged fast.”

  “Got it. No ‘bli-’ flower.” she said flatly, “won’t you tell me what it is?”

  He winced like she’d jabbed him with a stick, then smirked, “you sure you wanna know about that? It'll get you in trouble. Real trouble.”

  She studied him for a beat. “So. They’re hiding it. Or they want it.”

  Kion shrugged.

  “Maybe yes. Maybe not.”

  She narrowed her eyes, unconvinced. “Fine. What about my missing supply?”

  “Say you used your bag to cushion your fall. Lost it to the river. Tell them the underground current was short. That you found an air pocket in the cave. You swam through on your own.”

  He looked way too smug for someone talking about near-death river lies.

  “Right. They wouldn’t’ve mapped that. Cave was sealed when we got there.”

  She nodded slowly.

  “I’ll say I slipped while crossing to examine the lower ledge. Stone crumbled. River took me. They’ll question why I’d take that risk.”

  “Exactly,” Kion said, “the desperation makes it believable.”

  She grimaced.

  “Then I probably should throw myself in the river on the way back. For realism.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed with a grin, “that’ll sell the story.”

  “But it’ll ruin my notebook...”

  “You don’t use the watertight cover?”

  “...That’s a thing? Not just a you-and-your-magic-bag kind of thing?”

  “Nah. Eidryn’s latest line. Just came out. Thought someone like you would’ve known.”

  "Stopped checking their catalogs. Too much clutter.”

  “Understandable. The last one had a singing apple peeler. Flashy.”

  That earned him a breath of amusement. One corner of her mouth betrayed her. Kion lit up like a firefly.

  He reached into his satchel, pulled out his notebook, and slid off the cover. Then he held it out.

  “Here. Take mine. Still too clean to pass as ‘fresh from the ruin,’ but it’s better than nothing.”

  He let it drop from his hand. The shrunken cover flared back to full size mid-fall. She caught it and clipped it onto her own.

  “What about the rest??” she asked. “Still need to align our stories.”

  He nodded, retrieving his own pen from his satchel.

  “Tell me your version. I’ll match it. That way, you’re not stuck explaining mismatched timelines if they cross-reference.”

  She eyed him.

  “Then give me something. Details. A thread I can hook to.”

  His fingers brushed his chin for a moment, then he shrugged, deliberately vague.

  “No Kion. No flower. Truth door took more than one. The river, unplanned, accidental. That’s your story. Everything else?” He tilted his head, faint smirk returning, “wouldn’t be nearly as fun if I just gave it away.”

  She groaned.

  Then, with a steadying breath, Writ began.

  She recited her version aloud, slowly, deliberately, shaping the story into something survivable.

  Something they’d accept without question. Something just fractured enough to feel true, but never dangerous enough to invite a deeper dig.

  She corrected herself, rewound, practiced the phrasing, the timing. Imagined the questions they’d ask. Rehearsed the way her voice would need to sound when she said, “I was alone. I handled it.”

  She shaped her story in the hearth’s warmth, knowing the flame would demand more.

  And Kion sat beside her, nodding where needed. Quiet. Present. Listening.

  Not rewriting. Not correcting. Just anchoring her.

  Until the sun edged past its peak, and heat pressed heavy against the canopy. Until the ruin was behind them, and the pyre waited ahead.

  And still, she spoke. Because if this version didn’t hold...

  ...she’d have to burn for the truth.

  And she wasn’t ready to burn.

  Not yet.