Earlier.

  The moment the floor shuddered, she knew.

  This is it.

  Not a malfunction. Not bad luck.

  Activation.

  Stone screamed. Columns split. Launch traps armed. And in that single breath, she saw the design laid bare.

  He was sent to soften her guard.

  To speak like no one else dared.

  To bleed charm like a sedative.

  And then pull the trigger.

  She stepped back, not fear, calculation. Blade already half-drawn, angles aligning in her mind.

  But then, he panicked.

  Not the clean, calculated panic of an agent caught mid-mission. No. This was flailing. Sputtering. Genuine.

  “Okay if I just-- there’s a sigil anchor-- NOPE! Nope nope nope. That made it worse!”

  Writ blinked.

  He scrambled. Wrong traps, wrong walls. One foot snagged in a netline.

  Either he's not a cleaner, or he’s the best actor I’ve ever seen.

  ...But not even handlers fake that face.

  The ruin roared louder. Pressure built behind the walls. She could see the glyphs cracking, lines glowing.

  She could’ve run. Left him to the ruin. Let the Accord’s mistake erase itself.

  But she didn’t.

  Why are you still here?

  Because his eyes weren’t on the exit, they were on the glyphs. Those unknown, age-worn markings above the sealed wall.

  Not confused. Not blank. But focused, like he recognized them.

  Her pulse skipped. She flicked the ruined glyphstone from her palm as she bolted, fast and instinctive.

  “Run!” she barked.

  Only then did he move. He bolted, just behind her, barely missing a trap sigil as a column collapsed where he’d stood.

  The cracked floor gave chase. Sand swallowed half the corridor.

  She scanned ahead even as they ran, walls lined with foreign markings. Too many, too fast. She couldn’t read them all. One mistake could mean another trap.

  And still, he shouted, “THERE!”

  He threw out a hand, slammed it onto a sigil without hesitation.

  Click.

  The wall shifted. Stone groaned. Passage opened.

  “Safe zone! Definitely probably not cursed!”

  She didn’t hesitate.

  She dove. So did he, wings tucked low, dust trailing in his wake.

  Behind them, the last glyph flared. The stone sealed shut. Silence slammed down like a verdict.

  Her back hit the wall. Her knees nearly gave.

  Not from strain, but from conflict.

  If the Accord sent him… that shouldn’t have worked.

  He shouldn’t have panicked. Shouldn’t have guessed right.

  Shouldn’t have saved them both.

  Unless, that’s the deeper game.

  Be the lifeline. Build trust. Then rip it out when it matters more.

  She pressed two fingers to her temple. Breathing tight, controlled.

  He dropped beside her, flat on his back, mumbling about victories and survival like it meant something.

  But her eyes were on that sigil. The one he chose.

  Right. Instinctive. Precise.

  He knew it.

  Who the hell are you really, fairy?

  The silence between them wasn’t brittle anymore. But it wasn’t trust, either.

  It had just drawn inward. Quieter. Tighter.

  Buried beneath a worse question now thudding against her ribs.

  If the Accord didn’t send him, then someone sent him. Someone she hadn’t accounted for.

  She stood. Still breathing shallow. Still scanning.

  The corridor they’d landed in stretched to either side, each end swallowed by shadow. Neither offered answers. No motion. No hum of wards.

  She dusted herself off, patted down her coat, checked every pocket, nothing lost.

  Then reached for a chalk shard from her satchel.

  She knelt, marked the wall beside the sealed door. Two slashes and a vertical stroke.

  Not a message, not a map. Just proof. She’d been here, and survived.

  Then turned, and started left.

  The fairy fell into step beside her, wings still shedding dust, cheerful as ever.

  “Right! We’ve survived death traps together, and I still don’t know your name,” he chirped. “May I have the pleasure, miss?”

  She didn’t blink, didn’t answer. He didn’t mind.

  “No? Okay. Then I’ll call you Lunlun.”

  Her eyes flicked to him. Cold.

  He paused, theatrically mournful, “that was my pet firefly’s name,” he beamed, “do you like it?”

  “Try calling me that again,” she said flatly, “and I’ll shatter your wings and feed them to the otters.”

  He clutched his cheeks, delighted, “so that’s a ‘maybe’!”

  They reached a dead-end with a raised platform. She dropped into a crouch, studying the markings, same script as before.

  Kion flopped onto the platform, arms crossed, pouty, “you still haven’t told me your name. I can’t call you ‘Miss’ forever. That’s impersonal.”

  She ignored him, scanned the grooves between bricks. Detached one. A glyph glimmered faintly beneath.

  She brushed it clean. Reached out. Nothing.

  Dormant.

  Not a trap, not a key.

  She moved to the next.

  “‘Ma’am’ feels wrong too,” he said from behind her, “way too stabby.”

  She kept moving. Steady, methodical.

  "Okay, Lunlun it is."

  She didn’t stop him.

  Half-amazed, against her better judgment, at how the fairy could keep finding new topics to fill the silence.

  And that was dangerous.

  Kion hummed a tune. River-bright, off-key.

  Then came more words, like he couldn’t help himself.

  “You know, Lunlun, it’s actually a great name. Soft. Glowy. A little annoying if you get too close, perfect match.”

  She paused. He noticed.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she muttered.

  “I’m counting on it,” he replied cheerfully, “most friendships start with a threat anyway.”

  She kept going. Focused, steady.

  But somewhere beneath her trained instincts—something twisted.

  And worse, she let him. Jokes. Names. That humming tune.

  She told herself it was cover. A tactical silence. If the Accord questioned him, they’d get nothing. No name. No origin. Just another silence.

  But somewhere in the silence between her logic and her instinct, she wasn’t sure.

  Worse still?

  The silence didn’t feel threatening anymore.

  It felt like company.

  She stood, brushed off her gloves, pulled a chalk shard. Marked the wall beside the raised platform.

  Another mark.

  This end was clear. No exit, no trigger. She’d remember that if the ruin looped on itself.

  Then turned and walked.

  Kion uncurled from where he hovered upside down near a mural of moons and moths.

  “Leaving so soon?” he asked, flipping upright to follow.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Dead end?” he chirped, “nah. That was a Reflection Chamber. Very exclusive. For introverts. Entry only granted to the emotionally unavailable and profoundly repressed.”

  She didn’t stop walking.

  “But hey,” he added brightly, “you qualify!”

  That earned him a glance. Sharp, dry. Not quite a glare.

  Kion beamed wider. Floated backwards ahead of her, spinning occasionally like gravity was optional.

  She passed the chalk mark without looking. The path remained the same. Quiet, narrow, symmetrical enough to be deceptive. Only when the scrawled symbol faded from her peripheral vision did she speak.

  “Don’t touch anything.”

  Kion blinked, mock-wounded, “I only accidentally trigger death traps. That’s entirely different.”

  The corridor forked back toward the sealed entrance, her chalk mark still intact, but she veered toward the opposite side now, the path they hadn’t taken yet.

  Her steps slowed. Shoulders stiffened. She extended her senses.

  Cold air brushed her face. Something deeper ahead, ancient.

  She lifted one hand, fingers splayed in warning. He stilled immediately.

  And this time, silence followed. Not tension, but a warning.

  Writ stopped.

  Not because anything struck, but because something didn’t.

  The air ahead carried no echo. No dust-stir. The hallway should’ve looped or ended. Instead, it simply... vanished.

  A false corridor.

  She stepped forward, slow. Scanned the ground.

  The floor here was too intact. Unbroken tile. Lines too clean. Undisturbed for decades. Maybe centuries.

  Then she felt it, magic curled faintly in the stone, so faint it nearly blended with the decay. A different flavor from the trigger traps earlier. Subtle, coiled.

  “Stay back,” she said.

  Kion froze mid-hover, “why? What’s up there?”

  She was already kneeling. Fingers brushed along a misaligned stone. She eased it up, felt resistance.

  “Trap,” she muttered. Offered nothing more.

  Her frown deepened. Unfamiliar glyphs. Maybe gas. Maybe collapse. Maybe worse.

  Even so, she set to work. Disarming it meant disrupting its ley tether. She channeled her mana slow, matching its thrum.

  Halfway through the weave, a whisper of glyphlight shimmered from the wall behind her.

  Too late.

  Flare. Snap. A sound like a crackling whip.

  Kion moved before she did. He pushed her flat across the floor just as a glyph burst behind her.

  Not a direct hit. But it rang through her bones.

  Her breath caught. Eyes flicked to the one hand still wrapped around her arm. She didn’t shake it off. Didn’t snarl.

  Just breathed. Once. Sharp. Steady. That was all he’d get.

  And more than she’d given anyone in years.

  “You okay?” he asked, still hovering low, voice low and fast, “that strike nearly-- your hair kind of--”

  “Quiet,” she cut in. Not cruel, just taut, “trap’s not done.”

  She turned back. Finished the disarm. Slower, calmer.

  The pulse faded. The sigil cooled.

  Click.

  Safe.

  They stood again.

  Writ didn’t speak, only nodded toward the corridor ahead, no longer a trap, but a passage.

  Kion followed behind her, subdued now, for once. Their steps pressed into a layer of almost-invisible dust. No more loose here. Just cold stone. Stillness.

  And then they entered a chamber.

  It breathed cold.

  Deeper. Older. Preserved.

  No dust here. Only air suspended in silence. The walls shimmered faintly, polished smooth and inscribed with vertical lines of archaic glyphs.

  Writ moved with purpose now.

  Not a scout, not a prey. A predator with her scent found.

  She passed sealed doors, cracked cases, scrolls in fractured glass. Until she reached the wall.

  Stone polished clean, a crest carved deep and deliberate. A tree, roots knotted around a ring of clasped hands.

  No doubt. No interpretation. This was real.

  The place from the dossiers. The names they’d buried.

  Oathroot.

  Finally.

  The tracker on her wrist pulsed green.

  She reached for a book, pages intact. Language she could read.

  She exhaled. Quiet.

  Behind her, the fairy hovered, peered past her shoulder.

  “You’re researching a creepy tree?” he whispered, “very cult. Very dramatic. Eternal youth or just emotional decay?”

  She gave him a look and raised one finger.

  “Got it. Zip mode,” he whispered, zipping an imaginary lock across his lips.

  She pulled her notebook, began writing. No wasted motion, no sound beyond ink and breath.

  Kion drifted, hummed. A wordless tune.

  Not silence.

  But something quieter.

  And she had even started to expect it.

  She didn’t trust him.

  But she no longer wished he’d disappear.

  Tomorrow, she’d begin sorting the records.

  Tonight, she’d mark the start.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  She woke with her heart thrashing.

  Again.

  Her breath rasped too loud in the dark. Muscles locked. Throat bone-dry. Sweat clung to her spine like a second skin.

  The same dream. The same helplessness. The same face she never remembered when she blinked awake.

  And the shame always stayed.

  Too many nights. She’d stopped counting. Each one worse than the last. Each one scraping deeper beneath the skin.

  And every time she woke, the bitterness of that tea still haunted the back of her tongue.

  A rustle. Then--

  “Lunlun?”

  His voice soft, uncertain. Kion’s head popped out from between two ancient shelves, hair rumpled, wing joints twitching.

  He blinked fast, jolted upright, hovered a few inches above the floor, sleep never fully pulling him down.

  “Nightmare?” he asked, careful now.

  He drifted closer, slow. Not touching, not crowding. Just hovering like a worried wisp of starlight.

  “Do you want water? Warm water? Towel? Anything?”

  She should’ve said no.

  Should’ve buried herself back in stone and silence. Waved him off like always.

  But she didn’t.

  “...Hot water,” she said, quietly.

  He nodded, no questions. Just reached into his satchel and drew out a flask, no larger than his palm.

  She watched as he pressed it to the satchel flap. It stuck. Then, with a flick of mana, a soft fire shimmered beneath it. Contained, precise.

  She narrowed her eyes, but said nothing.

  He waited, wings twitching, pretending not to watch her.

  Then pulled the flask free, and the instant it left his satchel, it grew. Unfolded into a full-sized vessel, seamless and silent.

  He floated it toward her.

  “Careful,” he murmured, “it’s hot.”

  She took it.

  Gently, she set it down next to her. Watched the faint curl of steam. Her fingers trembled, but only slightly.

  Then she tore her satchel open. Shoved through bandages, wax rolls, steel clips. And found it.

  The last sachet.

  Silk-wrapped. Delicate. Unwelcome.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  Slapped it into the flask’s mouth like she meant to break it.

  Let it stain the water. Let it steep. Let it burn.

  Didn’t wait. Didn’t breathe.

  She drank, fast, deep. Let it scald her tongue, the roof of her mouth. She didn’t care.

  Let it hurt.

  Let it count.

  Here. Last one. It’s gone. That’s it. Stop this. Please.

  The flask was half-empty now. She slammed it down harder than needed.

  Then leaned back.

  The act wasn’t surrender. She didn’t surrender.

  It was defiance. Quiet, bitter. Coiled like wire behind her ribs.

  A final offering thrown into the dark.

  No more softness. No more weakness. No more past. Let me have the silence back.

  Pressed herself into the curve of the stone wall. Let her eyes close. Forcing sleep. As if it were something owed.

  She didn’t speak. Didn’t thank him. Didn’t even glance his way. But she felt him watching.

  Just to the side. Silent, uncertain. The weight of his silence. The worry curling at the edge of it.

  Like someone unsure whether to speak or to reach.

  And she wouldn’t have known what to do with either.

  So she turned her face deeper into the wall.

  And pretended not to notice.

  She woke to warmth.

  Subtle. Quiet. The faint scent of charred tea still clinging to her mouth.

  But the world didn’t lurch.

  No dreams. No claws. No failure gnawing her throat.

  Just stillness.

  Her eyes opened slow, trained to the rhythm even stone couldn’t block.

  The flask sat where she’d left it. Still half-full. Cold now.

  Her hand clenched the edge of the bedroll.

  So it had happened.

  The nightmare. The tea. The fairy.

  That moment she’d nearly shoved him away, then reached, instead, for her last dose. The one she swore she’d never use.

  And she’d used it.

  Steeped it in silence. Drank it down like a spell. A ward. A desperate, wordless plea.

  End this here. Please.

  She hadn’t meant to fall back asleep. She never meant to.

  Her spine locked tight.

  Guilt surged fast as the realization hit.

  She had slept.

  Unwarded. Exposed.

  She could’ve been killed.

  By a delayed trap. A creeping beast. A curious stranger. Or him, if he’d come with other orders, if all of this was just a long con and she was the mark.

  She sat up slow. Jaw clenched. Scanned the chamber.

  And there he was.

  Mid-air, just beyond reach. Picking dust from his wings like nothing happened.

  He looked up. Bright-eyed, “good morning!” he chirped, “sleep well?”

  She stared. Said nothing. His smile didn’t falter, but he didn’t press.

  Instead, he dug through his satchel again. Pulled out a folded cloth and offered it.

  “Water? Found a fissure northeast. Fresh, cold... miraculously uncursed.”

  She blinked. Took the cloth. Drank what was left in the flask.

  Still said nothing.

  And he didn’t mention the tea. Didn’t mention her waking. Didn’t ask about the way she’d clutched her knees like a child trying not to fall apart.

  Just kept the air light. Normal. As if to say, I saw. But I won’t make you explain.

  She hated how much she appreciated that.

  She rose. Grabbed both flasks. Followed without a word.

  No talking as they slipped through the tunnel. Only the steady drip of runoff, the whisper of breath.

  They reached the crack in the wall. A slow stream trickled through.

  She filled hers first. Rinsed her hands. Splashed her face.

  Cold bit clean through her skin. Grounding.

  She passed his flask back. No eye contact. He took it gently.

  “Thanks,” he said, simple.

  Still no mention of the night.

  Just water. Cloth. Morning.

  And the gentle, deliberate way he gave her silence to retreat into.

  She felt steady again. Fractured, but functional.

  They returned to the chamber in silence. Her limbs steady now. Her mind braced for the work ahead.