At least, that’s what her guess was.
There was no clock. No window. No true day or night. The corridors hummed the same. The lights shifted at odd intervals, untethered from any internal rhythm her body once obeyed.
The collar was gone, but its echo hadn’t left. A phantom chill still clung to her skin, burned into her neck like the memory of hands that were too methodical to be cruel. Almost.
She hadn't been punished. She hadn't been praised. No reprimands. No relief. No answers. Just stillness. A holding pattern.
Until now.
The summons came without ceremony. She was called back to the same room where she’d given her verbal report.
The walls were the same dull gray. The air the same antiseptic cold. Tiran was waiting there, flanked by a different pair of Black Quills this time, face still, hooded, sharp as needles.
He handed her the cup. Neutral gray, unlabeled, and lukewarm.
The memory suppressant. Standard procedure. She didn’t ask, didn’t blink. Just drank. Let the metallic sweetness slide down her throat and bloom cold inside her ribs.
After that, she only remembered her boots touching sand.
They had brought her back to Zeirath. The cliffs greeted her like half-forgotten dreams, jagged and breathless, wind-worn and sun-baked.
She walked the path she once ran, flanked on both sides by the silent gravity of Black Quill shadows. Their pins glinted like threats. Their presence reminded her of the Veiled. Expressionless, unreadable, a hush louder than any scream.
They didn’t tell her what they were looking for.
“Show us where you exited,” one of them said.
That was all.
So she did. Her boots left prints on the canyon floor again. Her fingers traced stone she had once brushed when she walked away. And then, there it was.
The waterfall. Unchanged. Indifferent. A wall of white noise hiding the desperate breath of a fairy who had saved her life.
She stood still a moment longer than necessary. Just long enough to pretend the water might spill in reverse. Just long enough to believe that if she dove again, it might return her to the moment before everything became irreversible.
The Quills said nothing. One circled to take readings. Another marked something in a thin metal book. Mist curled at their feet like they didn’t belong there. Too clean, too sharp.
No one asked her to speak. That, she could manage.
They moved beside Yureth, retracing every step she had taken from the city's edge to the ruin's mouth where she had made her descent. Near the threshold, she spotted a new post, low-profile, disguised, but unmistakably present.
It hadn’t been there before. They had someone watching. Maybe even while she was still inside. Maybe waiting to see if she would come out alive, or at all.
They kept walking. Eventually, they reached what was once the scriptorium. What remained of it. She blinked.
The destruction extended far beyond where she’d last seen it.
Kion had triggered a trap rooms away from here. She hadn't known the fallout was this... vast. A jagged hole yawned where stone should’ve been, charred and buckled around the edges, carved open by force or fire or both.
None of them said anything. But one of the Quills paused a beat longer, their pen hovering just as she took in the ruin. They noted her reaction. Of course they did.
When they're done, another cup was offered.
She drank again.
She couldn’t say whether she’d been awake on the trip back. The suppressant clouded everything.
She only knew that she was back in Nexus. Same room. Same walls. Same silence.
The paper and pens were still stacked where she left them. Her coin pouch, Kion’s coin pouch, still tucked in the inner lining of her belt. Untouched. She let out a breath.
Another cell. Another stretch of emptiness.
They didn’t lock the door. They didn’t have to. Any wrong step, and the system would flag her. Watching, always.
Meals came like clockwork. Three times a day. Same bland tray, same portion, same silence. Every night, her writings vanished. Replaced by pristine paper. No ink. No trace.
She didn’t write anything real. Just daily logs. The kind they’d always asked for. Cold, mechanical reports she used to file when they let her out of reach, when the illusion of autonomy still mattered. A performance of compliance.
Wake. Eat. Meditate. Exercise.
Eat. Meditate. Exercise.
Eat. Meditate. Sleep. Repeat.
Sometimes, she doodled tangled thread. Just lines. Interwoven, snagged, looping. She didn’t know if they’d read meaning in it.
She wondered if they’d ever let her outside again. Not just for assignments. But outside.
She’d wear the collar, if it meant they’d trust her to move again. Let the lie detector sit at her throat. Let it choke her if they had to. It wouldn’t even be the worst fate. At least it would be fast. At least it would be clean.
If she was already dead in that ruin, if she never made it out, then all this was just the afterimage. A shadow of a shadow.
Sometimes she thought of trying it, what Kion said. Shouting, silently. In her mind.
She imagined his voice trying to answer her through the layers. Through the steel. Through the web of sigils and surveillance and suspicion.
Would he even reach her? Or was that promise just another trap to measure her disloyalty?
She never tried.
She just curled up in the corner. And wondered if she should’ve taken his offer.
To leave.
To disappear.
To finally be free.
Another seven days had passed. Or eight. Maybe. She didn’t count anymore, not in ways that mattered. Not since the last time they’d dragged her in and handed her a test dressed like mercy.
Now, they’d called her again.
The door opened with a familiar hiss. Sealed air pulled back by cold hydraulics and compliance.
She didn’t flinch as it revealed the room beyond. Still the same slick metal edges, that same soft lamplight bleeding from the ceiling like a tired eye.
She stood. Just long enough to make it look like a choice.
Then moved. Boots soundless on polished floors. Gait even. Every movement cut from muscle memory and restraint. The escort didn’t speak. Didn’t glance her way. Neither did she.
These halls of the Nexus compound were carved like veins into a body that never bled. Stone walls, steel thresholds, hums behind walls she’d long stopped trying to identify.
Places built to hold people like her. Monitor them. Strip the edges from anything that might be called will.
Another test. Everything was a test.
The door to the interrogation room clicked open without ceremony. She stepped inside without waiting to be called.
The room looked the same. One chair, one table. But this time, only one figure sat behind it.
Tiran.
No observers this time. No mirrored walls or silent third parties breathing behind glass. Just Tiran and the scent of old paper and cold stone and something else beneath it all.
Familiar. Faint. Almost like ink burned too long under a lamplight.
He didn’t greet her. Didn’t ask her to sit. He simply waited, eyes flat, face unreadable, until the door sealed shut behind her with a thud she felt more in her ribs than her ears.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Then he lifted a folder from the table. Plain and brown. The edge, creased.
“You were monitored,” he said, flicking it open, “your answer was consistent. Uncoerced.”
A pause. A flick of his eyes to the page, then back up.
“And convenient.”
The word landed sharp, clean, but barbed. Like a knife meant to be noticed, not wielded.
Then, as if the edge had never been there, his tone smoothed again.
“Your story held. No reactive drift. No suggestive cues. You led us to both entry and exit without deviation.”
The folder stayed open, but his gaze returned to her, sharp and weighing.
“That buys you two things.”
A pause. Thin as wire. She felt it wrap around her ribs.
“First, no consequences. Yet. Second, we’re assigning you to long-range recon. Ongoing.”
She didn’t nod. Didn’t blink.
“You’ll circulate through the outer Bronze settlements,” he continued, “focus on trace intel. Archives, ruins, local hearsay. Anything remotely linked to Bronze Concord covert activity. Look for signs of formation, organization. See if they’re doing things normal nations do.”
That word, normal, didn’t land clean. He said it with the tone of someone dissecting the corpse of an ideal.
“You are still required to check in at any nearest Accord branch at least every three days,” he added, “if you’re out of your assigned region. We’ll know.”
She nodded once. A clean, utilitarian gesture. Her hands stayed at her sides.
“Or,” Tiran said, and something behind his tone shifted, like iron brushing velvet, “you can choose the collar. Without the required check-ins.”
A beat.
Then his hand moved, not toward the folder, but to the drawer beneath the table. He pulled it open. What came out was small. Quiet.
A box, velvet-lined, dark as shadow and twice as patient. When he opened it, the hinge made a soft click, deliberate. Controlled. Like a lock snapping shut.
Inside, a collar. Matte iron. Seamless. Unmarked.
Except for the glint of inlaid green stones, replacing the red ones she’d worn before. Different model.
But she knew this shape. Too well. The model she’d worn fourteen years ago hadn’t been just a leash, it had been the end of language. The silence of identity. The enforced muteness of choice.
She hadn’t even realized she was staring until something caught in her throat. Dry. Sharp-edged. Her stomach didn’t drop, but something inside her spine coiled inwards.
She’d told herself she would agree. She’d braced for it, accepted the necessity in theory. But now, faced with the actual thing. Cold, real, and waiting. She wasn’t sure anymore.
Tiran let the silence stretch. Not a threat or kindness. Just choice, wrapped in obedience, dressed like freedom.
Writ’s eyes flicked to the collar, then to Tiran’s face, then away again.
She knew what it meant. Constant surveillance. Real-time data relay. No room to vanish, even briefly. But fewer interactions. Fewer summoned walks down corridors lined with watchers.
And the kill-switch, unconfirmed, untested, always implied. She hadn’t wanted to find out if it was a bluff.
Another trap. Another test. Another thing she wished would end, just once, without a hook beneath the skin.
“So?” Tiran said finally, his voice unmoved, “you’ve considered.”
She had. And hated that she had.
“Do you require me to wear the collar?” she asked.
“No.”
“May I refuse it?”
“You may.”
A pause followed, quiet, but weighted.
Then, almost offhandedly, he added, “but you'd convince us more if you chose it yourself. Same as how you handled the last report.”
She didn’t move. Not out of hesitation, but calculation.
He’d just echoed her own words back at her. About her report. About her answer that was never really free.
This wasn’t about the collar. Not anymore. It was about what she was willing to surrender. Voluntarily. And how far she’d go to sell the illusion that she was still theirs.
“Then please help me wear it.”
Her voice didn’t shake. Her hands didn’t flinch. But it burned. Because she wasn’t choosing the collar. She was choosing to convince them.
Tiran said nothing. Just gestured for her to step closer.
She did. Leaning forward so he could reach her neck. Eyes shut. She felt its weight. The way it locked. The way it hummed the moment it sealed shut.
She’d known this would happen. Especially after the man on the left had asked her about it during the fake lie-detector session.
She’d lived with it before. For over three years. She’d survive another. Better than being caged indefinitely. She hoped they weren’t planning that next.
“Too tight?” Tiran asked.
Her eyes stayed shut, but an image flashed behind them, her previous handler.
“Too tight? Good. It should be.”
A shudder crawled through her. She was grateful Tiran was the only one here. And grateful that he hadn’t said it like him.
“Answer me, Writ,” he said, “you’re allowed to say if it’s too tight. I can adjust it.”
That brought her back.
“No, it’s not,” she finally answered.
His hand left her neck. She felt him shift, returning to his seat.
She opened her eyes. Almost stepped back when he took her wrist. She stopped. Closed her eyes again.
“He’s no longer a free man,” Tiran said suddenly, “you won’t see him again.”
Her breath faltered. Fingers curled slightly.
She had never heard a single word about that man. Not in all thirteen years since Tiran had taken over. She had never asked. Too afraid of the answer. Too afraid to hear they’d done nothing to him. Tiran had never told her, either.
And now...
A flash of relief. An almost-sickening kind. The kind that came when your tormentor was finally gone, and you didn’t know what to do with the silence.
She didn’t let it rise. Stayed still. Let Tiran tamper with her tracker bracelet without watching.
Only when she felt it removed from her wrist, and her identification stone placed back in her palm, did she open her eyes and step back. The stone felt solid. Cold and real.
“You know the protocol. Charge it every three days. If it drains, the failsafe triggers. No warnings, no overrides.”
She nodded. She already knew that.
“You’ll stay in contact via relay points through Accord branches,” Tiran said after a beat.
“You’ll be relocated every few weeks. Sometimes more often. Written reports are required. Drop them off at each check-in before relocation.”
He continued, flatly, “You’ll be assigned a cover identity. Use the one prepared for you in Virelen. If you're called back early, comply.”
Her jaw tensed, once. Then eased.
“Questions?” he asked.
She shook her head. He reached for the folder, unmarked, sealed with a strip of wax as dark as dried blood, and slid it across the table.
“Your first placement begins tomorrow,” he said, “you’re cleared for supply room access.”
A pause.
Then, more gently, “do you want me to escort you?”
Writ blinked.
“Yes, please,” she said, without thinking.
Tiran stood, handed her the folder, and turned.
“Follow me.”
She stepped forward without hesitation. Took the folder. Did not look back. The door hissed shut behind her, the same sound as when she’d entered, but it felt different now.
She looked ahead, at Tiran’s back. The way he walked. The composure in every step. He hadn’t needed to tell her about her previous handler. But he had. And she was grateful for that.
A familiar leash is still a leash. But at least she know how Tiran pulls.
And for now, that would have to be enough. Until something tipped the balance again.
The water had stopped running long ago, but she remained still. Leaning forward against the sink with both palms pressed flat against its cold ceramic edge.
The collar gleamed dully in the mirror above her.
Writ exhaled through her nose. Slowly. Calmly. Her eyes tracked the stones embedded along the length of the metal band. When she swallowed, she could feel the soft press of it tightening, just a hint. Not choking. Not cutting in. But it was there.
Heavy in the way memory was heavy.
She tilted her chin up and touched the edge, letting two fingers slide beneath it. Three if she forced it. Tiran hadn’t lied. It wasn’t too tight. Not this time.
A bitter tug crept at the corner of her mouth. He was also the one who had loosened the last one. After the metal bit in for too long and left a raw, angry ring she couldn’t cover, no matter how many high collar clothes they issued her.
She hadn’t asked him to fix it, hadn’t even told him. He’d just seen it, and adjusted it without a word. Efficient, cold, and precise. She’d almost preferred it to pity.
The memory of a different voice cut in, one that scraped against the edge of her mind like a dull blade.
“Do you honestly believe they’ll care now? After you clung to life like a parasite, refusing to die when you should’ve?”
Her jaw clenched. She blinked, once, sharply. Shooed him away.
The bathroom light buzzed faintly overhead. She focused on it. Let it anchor her.
At least with the collar, she didn’t have to report in person to the Accord branches every few days. No more regular face-to-face reviews. No constant stares from tight-lipped agents who saw her as something between a relic and a risk. Just daily logs. And her new leash.
This way, there would be more traveling. Fewer branches. Less time under glass. And more importantly, less confinement.
A flicker of sterile white from the past crept into the edge of her vision. Her stomach twisted. She forced it down.
No windows. Just like her current room. That one, at first, had structure. Predictable cycles. Lights, alarms, meals. Always on schedule. Drills announced. Pain, packaged neatly between routine. Until it wasn’t.
After one interrogation, the rhythm snapped. Lights at random. Alarms like static, louder, softer, never the same twice. Meals dropped from schedule, sometimes doubled, sometimes vanished. Drills struck mid-sleep, mid-breath, mid-thought.
They’d taught her something then. The Accord could make confinement predictable, measured, survivable. But they could just as easily take that away. And they wouldn’t hesitate.
She could handle pain. Could even grit through the hunger and cold. But she couldn’t brace for what she couldn’t predict.
She breathed in. Slow, steady. This room wasn’t that cell. Not yet.
She closed her eyes for a second. Then opened them. She turned from the mirror and walked back into her room. Her pack waited by the door. Neatly placed. Ready.
Issued identity: Nema Solenne, Hall of Accord External Procurement Division. Temporary liaison for cross-region inventory and resource recalibration.
The same as last time. Clean. Functional. A face to wear that didn’t ask for stories.
She’d brought some basics. Civilian clothes. A shoulder-length wig, short enough not to catch, long enough to pass casual inspection. The longer ones still made her skin crawl.
Even now, she could feel it, the ghost-tug of hair caught between fingers, yanked like a chain. Her real hair was cropped close. A deliberate cut, a refusal. But sometimes, in the quiet, her skin still remembered.
There were some rations. A travel kit. A new set of blades. None of them hers. None of them ever would be. Accord could and would reclaim them at any time.
She’d packed a leather bracelet for her ID stone, slipping it around her wrist in place of the tracker they’d finally removed.
A coin pouches had been tossed in last. One standard-issue. She’d buried it at the bottom of her bag.
The other pouch, Kion’s, remained tucked in her inner pocket. She tapped it lightly. Still there. Still not taken. Her fingers lingered.
Kion.
His voice returned without effort. The steadiness of it. The offer. The ridiculous, impossible hope behind it.
What if she had run? Would the Accord have found her? Or would she have ended up with a different shackle instead?
She touched the collar. Cold metal met her fingers, unmoving, unyielding. A reminder, as ever, of who still held the leash.
What if she called him now? Not with her mouth, but the way he said she could. Loud. In her mind. Make noise, and he’d come.
Would he hear her? Would he still come? Or would this new leash, the upgraded one, wired with a silent kill switch, cut her off before she even had the chance?
They were letting her out again. Giving her space to roam. Missions. Field time. Minimal contact. But it didn’t feel like freedom.
Not when she couldn’t even reach her stashes. The one buried deep in Whisrun, the 'far' and the 'high'. Or her hidden cache toward Karmith route, sealed behind too many turns.
Too far a detour. Too risky a deviation. She was still watched. Still bound. They’d widened the cage. But they weren’t letting her out. Not really.
But then again, freedom was never made for people like her. Not for the shadows buried in Accord’s system. Not for the girl they dropped in the middle of nowhere, no supplies, no map, just an order to make it back.
She crossed the room, slow and deliberate. Her pack was zipped. Her shoes were by the door. Her new blades gleamed dull in their sheath.
The collar didn’t chafe. It sat comfortably on her neck. Like it belonged.
She was alive. Still walking. Still breathing. Allowed to move on her own. That was what mattered.
Maybe she wasn’t living on borrowed time anymore. Maybe she’d actually left the ruin behind. Walked out of the interrogation room intact.
Or maybe... just maybe...
They were letting her borrow it for longer this time.