Earlier, when Tiran had summoned her, someone had been waiting outside her door. No words, no questions, just a silent gesture, and then the long walk through sterile corridors toward the reporting chamber.
But now? Now, the hallway was empty. That was either freedom... or the illusion of it.
She walked slowly. Her footsteps were muffled by the stone floor, the silence only broken by the soft rustle of her clothes. Not cautious or sluggish, just measured. Her breathing even. Arms relaxed at her sides. Every movement deliberate in its plainness. Just the way they taught her.
And yet... Her skin still remembered the collar.
Though it was gone now, she could still feel the ghost of it. Cool metal on warm skin, the rigid edge pressing against her throat, the faint imagined hum under her pulse. Her body hadn’t yet caught up with its absence.
She’d almost bolted the moment she saw it.
Tiran had let her open the box herself. The collar lay nestled in black foam like some sacred object. The second it caught the light, something in her twisted. Cold, recoiling.
Memory surged up, cruel and uninvited.
Her former handler. The one who made a game of breaking her.
He had always smiled when he locked it around her neck. Took pleasure in the tremble of her shoulders, the involuntary flinch. Called her names. Tightened it until she choked on her breath. Then laughed, every time.
He used to say she looked better with bruises. And he meant it. She remembered the weight of his voice more vividly than the metal itself.
But Tiran didn’t do that.
He hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t sneered. He’d been methodical. Professional. Adjusted the strap until it sat firm, but not constricting. Left enough space that she could still breathe without strain. Still speak without rasping.
And somehow, that grounded her. Just enough. Enough to keep her steady. To keep her upright inside the skin she’d prepared. An act refined and sharp and sturdy enough to carry her through the storm.
Because that collar? It was never a lie detector. Not a real one.
If it had been, if it could truly sense truth from fiction, they would’ve stopped her the moment she opened her mouth. The very first statement she gave would've triggered something.
Because none of what she told them matched what the truth-door had recorded. Not the real truth she gave it.
And yet they let her speak. Let her finish. Let her walk out.
Which meant the collar wasn’t there to catch lies. It was there to catch her. To watch what she couldn’t control. Her pupils, her breath, the tremors beneath her voice. It was a gauge for tension. For threat. For cracks she couldn’t mask in time.
She knew she’d frozen for half a breath when she saw it. Spine taut. Fingers curling almost imperceptibly at her side.
She could only hope they filed that away as trauma.
Residual fear. Not fear of getting caught.
Because if they’d known better, if they’d understood what the truth door really required, they would’ve questioned her answers. Pushed for details. They didn’t.
No reaction. No pushback. Not even a blink when she described it. Which meant they didn’t know. Not really.
They probably had a partial reconstruction of the ruin, some secondhand layout. But nothing on how the truth door worked. Especially not the old models Kion had mentioned, the ones with a failsafe system that required two people to open it.
If they’d known that... that alone would’ve flagged her.
Because every answer she gave today was precise. Not false, never outright false. Just carefully curated. A chain of half-truths, selected fragments. Truths meant to protect her by their plausibility. Each one honed just enough to pass inspection, but not sharp enough to draw her own blood.
If she played this right... if they believed enough... she might earn a longer leash. A looser grip.
She reached her door. It looked the same as always. Plain, functional. Just another nondescript room in the Accord's housing wing.
Inside, nothing had moved. The bed was still made. The stack of papers still untouched on the desk. Nothing added. Nothing taken.
She tapped her 'near' stash through her pocket. Still there.
For a moment, she just stood there, hand resting on the doorframe.
Then she stepped inside. Crossed the room. Sat down on the edge of the bed. Her hands rested lightly on her thighs. Not clenched. Not shaking.
Just... still. And that faint pulse. Again. Like a leash rematerializing through smoke.
She didn’t flinch at it. Didn’t touch it. But her body knew. That ache in her radius. That heatless twitch beneath bone.
A private signal, sent and logged, over and over again. Still was.
The room was too quiet. She glanced at the ceiling. At the corners. No visible tracker. But that meant nothing. If they were watching, they wouldn’t need to be seen.
She exhaled slowly through her nose.
How had she done?
Too calm? Too polished? Did she come off as rehearsed? Did she flinch at the right moments? Did she hold Tiran’s gaze too long? Did she look human enough to be worth keeping?
Tiran had played neutral, but she knew better. That tone, flat, composed, was his shield when he didn't trust himself to lean either way.
He was biased. Of course he was. Thirteen years of shared past made sure of that.
But the Veiled, the Black Quill, was harder to read. Colder. Calculated. Her words had the precision of someone used to cutting through lies, not hearing them.
And the man on her right...
He unsettled her. There was no cruelty in him. No edge. Just a quiet, constant examination. He hadn’t smiled, hadn’t frowned. Just listened. Asked pointed questions without the tone of accusation.
Curiosity, not judgment. Which made him the most dangerous one in the room.
She leaned forward again, elbows to knees, fingers laced. The collar's memory still lingered across her skin, phantom-like.
This room, hers or not, felt like a facade. A set piece. They hadn’t locked her in. No guards stationed nearby. No boundaries drawn. They let her roam.
Once, she stepped out into the corridor. Took a few aimless steps. Then waited.
Waited for someone to bark at her. To shove her back inside. To remind her she was only technically free.
But no one came.
And that absence... didn’t comfort her.
She replayed their questions in her head. The way they’d asked about confinement like it was a choice. The way they’d let the collar buzz, sharp and sudden, right when she’d said "I’d leave."
It was a test. It had to be. The collar couldn’t tell truth. So someone triggered it. Either manually, probably by the Veiled, or built into the cadence of her words. Either the speed of her answer, or the answer itself.
Too fast, maybe. Too sure. Or maybe it would’ve buzzed no matter what she said. Just to see what she’d do next.
And it had shaken her. For a second, yes.
But she hadn’t panicked. Hadn’t protested. She'd recovered quickly. Easily.
Because that was how she thought of Kion, at first.
The question...
“If someone offered you a place to stay. Away from us. How would you react?”
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And the echo...
“Say, Lunlun. If you ever wanted to disappear, before they make it official... I know a few paths they don’t map.”
Did they know?
Did Kion report that part? Was he the reason for that question? Had he been the one who planted that test? Was he still on her side? Or had he decided he wasn’t impressed anymore?
That... would hurt.
She let herself fall back on the mattress, arms at her sides. Eyes closed.
Kion had pierced through her when she was raw, when the ruin had left her broken open. And he’d made it look effortless.
He had shown her what it felt like to choose. To not be handled. To be... seen. And she let him in.
Now she knew how dangerous that was. Letting someone close enough to matter. Letting someone offer kindness she couldn't afford to believe in.
...
She would need to adjust her expectations. Pull them back. Lower. Bury them so deep no one could see.
She couldn’t let herself flinch every time she didn’t feel that same lightness. Couldn’t treat every cold answer like a personal wound.
Kion had raised the bar too high. And that kind of softness? That could get her killed.
She would have to harden again. Let the shell seal tight. Let the Accord see what they expected to see.
Not the soft parts. Not the wondering. Even if something inside her still carried his warmth, like a fading ember tucked between the ribs.
She tapped her pocket, brushing against the familiar weight of the coin stash. Still there. Still hers.
Even if some quiet part of her still wanted. That couldn’t be the reason she fell.
She opened her eyes to the ceiling.
Five minutes.
She’d take five minutes to feel all of it. Then she’d move.
Because this wasn’t over.
It never was.
And tomorrow, they’d be watching closer.
Kion’s POV
Arkwyn's Private Library, East Wing, Kesherra Basin
If glares could kill, Kion would be a smear on the floor.
Charred and smoking, then scrubbed out with salt for good measure.
Veska was staring at him like he’d just drop-kicked her beloved terrier into a volcano.
Across the room, Mirev perched on the arm of a velvet chair, legs swinging, a lemon poppy cookie halfway to her mouth.
She was clearly counting this as her nightly rebellion. Curfew broken, cookie in hand, and a front-row seat to potential disaster.
Younglings. Always drawn to someone’s impending execution with the kind of amusement usually reserved for public duels or really unfortunate pie accidents. Her smile was far too wide.
Kion fluttered down toward the reading table, wings twitching.
He still wasn’t used to the strain-free motion, the lack of stabbing pain whenever he banked left.
The undine’s healing had done a stellar job, he owed them more than just another favor. A thank-you pastry basket, at least.
He had flown as fast as a mayfly in a thunderstorm ever since parting ways with Writ.
Panicked, graceless, borderline erratic.
After asking a trio of younger fairies how to reach the Oathroot from the canyon, he got his answer in a flurry of giggles and gleeful wingbeats. They’d known. Of course they had.
It made sense now, Seraithe must have told them.
She must’ve planted the idea, quietly nudging her kin to help him find his way home after he’d jumped through the waterfall, regardless of the cursed banishment mark he bore.
She probably guessed he’d be too battered to chart his return, or too foolish to rest first.
She knew him too well.
He’d have to bribe her again, clearly.
Something extravagant this time, maybe blackcurrant macarons.
But he really hoped she hadn’t filed him under 'deceased', given he’d vanished for nearly two weeks.
He went straight to the one place in Kesherra he knew would still be awake, Arkwyn’s Private Library.
Glitterstorm had claimed it as their unofficial base camp, over Arkwyn’s very vocal protests. But majority rule was brutal that way.
It was nearly midnight when he slipped through the upper windows, expecting Fenwick on night shift.
Fenwick would’ve been easier.
Instead, he got Veska.
And Mirev.
He cleared his throat, “So... good evening, Veska? Long time no see, Mirev?”
Veska didn’t blink, “look who’s finally here.”
Mirev pressed her palms together, mock-prayer position, “may the roots receive your soul.”
Kion winced, “okay. That’s dramatic.”
“Would you kindly explain,” Veska said, enunciating each syllable like a knife sharpened against stone, “the extremely urgent matter that made you vanish without notice, dropping your workload on every single one of us?”
Kion raised both hands in surrender, “wait! Wait! Don’t raise the guillotine yet! I appeal for mercy. Or, at least, for a souvenir to soften the blow.”
He rummaged through his satchel, quick and frantic.
Fingers brushed past folded notes, crumpled field maps, and a scatter of empty flasks, until they found it.
A smooth glass vial, cradled in a bed of protective moss.
Veska folded her arms, unimpressed, “there is no souvenir in the realm that can save you from this.”
“I’d like his right wing. Fried,” Mirev said cheerfully, “you can have the left, Veska.”
“No thanks,” she didn’t even turn her head, “give it to Fenwick. He collects disaster trophies.”
Kion slapped the vial on the table like a trump card.
“Look! Found this.”
The small vial shimmered the moment it touched the old oak surface, resizing itself with a soft bloop and unfolding into a crystalline tube.
Inside, nestled in humming stasis, was the soft bloom of Blissbane.
Its petals pulsed faintly, veins of silver light crawling in fractal patterns across the flesh of the flower like it was breathing, like it remembered.
Silence.
Mirev leaned forward, cookie forgotten, eyes wide.
Veska’s anger dimmed, replaced by something sharper, curiosity.
“...Is this...” Veska started. Her voice was oddly quiet, “is this what I think this is?”
“It’s not an illusion,” Kion said, “I dug the root up myself.”
Mirev abandoned her perch entirely, sliding to the floor beside the table. She stared at the vial like it might whisper back.
One fingertip reached out and barely tapped the glass. The silver lines inside pulsed in response.
“Where did you get it?” Veska asked, “how did you find a Blissbane bloom? Did you...” her voice dropped lower, “...did you go through the Accord’s gate?”
“Ermm... yes and no?”
“That is not a comforting answer, Kion.”
He scratched behind his ear, “it’s complicated. You remember the shadow that mapped the east wing a few weeks ago?”
“The one that spotted Fenwi— Featherglint’s unclosed stairwell and didn’t stop to investigate?” Mirev supplied.
“That one. The one he called Silent Writ.”
“Oh. Her. I ran into her near Relay Nine,” Mirev shuddered dramatically, “noped out immediately. Did not enjoy that experience. What about her?”
Kion glanced between them, wings folding tight to his back, “I followed her.”
The room went still. Even the Blissbane seemed to pause.
“I tagged her while she was here,” he added quickly, “told Veska about it. Just didn’t mention... how far I’d take it.”
Veska’s brows rose like they were ready to launch, “you followed a classified threat into unknown territory. Alone.”
“She did know me, okay? Thanks to your trap! And she didn’t kill me on sight!”
Mirev snorted.
Kion pressed on, “she was headed straight for the Tenzurah archive. I thought maybe she was after something useful. Something that tied to our intel. Instead... I found this. Deep down. And she didn’t even recognize the flower.”
Veska stepped closer, boots muffled by the thick library rug, “first of all, why did you go without telling us?”
“I— look, I knew if I asked, you'd say no.”
“Correct,” Veska said.
She stopped right in front of him, and with one hand, careful, deliberate, cupped him in her palm.
Her fingers curled gently, deliberately not touching his wings, but close enough to remind him just how very small he was next to her wrath.
“Second of all,” she said softly, “Tenzurah’s been buried for decades. What kind of lunatic enters a collapse zone just to chase a shadow?”
“I had supplies! A full month’s worth!”
“You have—”
He threw up his hands, “and a local fairy network! Very friendly, very discreet!”
She inhaled through her nose. The kind of inhale that usually ended with someone’s windows exploding.
“Third of all,” she said, voice sharpening, “why do you sound like you’re defending her?”
Kion blinked, “what—?”
“You told me you weren’t getting attached,” her hand lifted him higher, right in front of her face. Too close, “you said you were buying time. That this was strategic. But now?”
A pause. Not long, but deep.
“You vanished for two weeks. Fenwick was the only one you told, and he didn’t even know where you were going.”
She leaned in.
“Tell me you're not infatuated, Kion. Not with a shadow. Not for the reason this room looks like a trap dressed in tea and tapestries. Not for someone who might slit our throats and call it duty.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“Tell me, look me in the eyes and tell me, you’re not moved by her.”
Mirev took another cookie.
Kion swallowed. He could lie. But Veska would know. She always did.
“...I’m doing this,” he said quietly, “to gather intel. To anticipate what comes next. To protect the people who’ve trusted us with their lives.”
His voice trembled. But his words were true. Mostly.
Veska stared into him for a moment longer.
Then, slowly, she uncurled her fingers and let him hover back to the table. Even Mirev exhaled, long and low.
But Kion knew he needed that push.
She was right.
He’d let himself drift too far, too deep. And if he didn’t draw the line now, he never would.
But he knew the tether wouldn’t let him do that. Not when it still hummed with the constant loneliness sent for him.
Not when he’d let her walk back alone, into the place that would drain her dry.
“Fine,” Veska muttered, “anything else?”
Kion nodded, “she’s looking for information about Oathroot. Deep mechanics. Maybe connected to Accord’s threat to show them how to revise stored oaths”
Veska pulled a notepad from her vest, flipping to a clean page.
Mirev leaned her chin on the edge of the table, still watching the Blissbane like it might combust.
“She’s also gathering intel on Bronze,” Kion continued, “routes, maps, shelters. Locations we could repurpose for smuggling paths. I’ve got a list of everything she flagged, we need to cross-reference and purge those assets.”
“We’ll sort the list later,” Veska said.
He nodded.
“Oh, and Mirev?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re under house arrest.”
“...What?! Why me?”
“They found references to Aroothe. She uncovered documentation on mnemonic lines.”
Both women froze.
“That’s... impossible,” Veska breathed.
Then her eyes narrowed. A long pause stretched between them as the pieces began to slot together, slowly, reluctantly.
“Right...” she said, more to herself than anyone else, “Tenzurah was already buried by then. We sealed every known entry, destroyed anything topside that even hinted at the mnemonic lines. Burned field notes, redacted records...”
She trailed off. Her jaw clenched.
“But the archives below...” Her voice thinned, “we never touched them. Not properly.”
Kion gave a slow, grim nod, “didn’t have the manpower. Or the expertise to dig that deep without risking collapse.”
His gaze drifted toward the shelves.
“But the Accord did. They sent her exactly where we didn’t dare go. Straight into what we thought would stay buried.”
He paused, then added quietly, "I've weaved illusion spell on her notes. They’ll still read like Bronze intel, just the wrong kind. Harmless dead ends, fabricated vaults. It’ll buy us time. But they’ll see through it, eventually. We need to move fast. Finalize the current batch. Flag compromised routes. Get ahead of the breach.”
“And convince the mnemonic lines to flee,” Veska muttered, a bitter edge in her voice.
“They won’t,” Mirev muttered, “stubborn as the council gramps.”
“I know,” Kion said, “but if we don’t...”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.
Veska’s gaze dropped to the Blissbane bloom, still pulsing like a heartbeat sealed in glass.
She muttered something under her breath, likely agreement, likely a curse, and stabbed her pen back into the papers.
The silence that followed wasn’t hollow. It thrummed with plans, with what-ifs, with the terrible precision of not enough time and too much at stake.
Kion sat on the edge of the table, wings curled in tight.
The glow from the Blissbane bloom threw long shadows against the shelves. Between flickering candlelight and pulse-veined blue, the night inside the library stretched long, and darker still.
Outside, Kesherra Basin lay still beneath midnight.
But that stillness was lying.
And time was already breaking.