And Writ wasn’t sure what to do about it.
She slumped forward, resting her weight across the wooden desk. A stub of graphite scraped aimlessly across the page beneath her.
She wasn’t writing, just lines. Parallel at first, then cross-hatched. One cut through another, shallow grooves on cheap paper. Scribble. Turn. Scribble again.
Being idle didn’t feel right anymore. Not since Tiran’s silence. Not since the last trial. Not since Arkwyn’s voice coiled through her thoughts again.
Her body still carried exhaustion like a cloak soaked through, heavy and reluctant. But it was her mind that groaned beneath it.
It was her thoughts that clawed at the inside of her skull, begging for momentum, for something other than stillness.
Tiran hadn’t asked for a report since she arrived in Brandholt. No daily log. No updates. No check-ins or threats disguised as protocol. Just silence.
She didn’t know if it was because he pitied her. Or if it was another test.
The collar beneath her scarf still hummed. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind. It throbbed now and then like a second heartbeat in her throat.
She was still claimed.
They hadn’t sent instructions. But she hadn’t been released either.
No knock. No message. No flicker from the identity stone pressed cold against her wrist in its leather casing.
Whatever they’re preparing, it won’t be kind.
She leaned back, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms.
She wished it would end. The trials. The scrutiny. The endless question of 'what next' with no answer in sight.
But even without Caedern confirming it, she already knew it wouldn’t.
Once you became an object of interest, you stayed that way.
Her first collar took three years to shed. She doubted this one would be any more forgiving.
More likely, she’d die with it.
And no shadow dies of old age.
She stood and stretched, arms arching overhead. Bones cracked softly under her skin. Her muscles ached like they remembered violence even if she hadn’t moved all day.
Too much free time has made her spiral. Too much Kion has made her hope.
That was dangerous.
So she got dressed, slow and methodical, pulling on her disguise with the motions of old habit.
Fingers brushed over the glyph at her door, checking for tamper, tracking, surveillance. Still clear.
Then she left.
She’d started walking again yesterday.
At first, it was nothing more than impulse, a restless itch sparked by the strange, almost playful ambush at the café.
Arkwyn’s presence had struck her like a live current, a jolt straight to the marrow. A reminder of what it felt like to move on her own terms, to choose her steps, before Relay Nine. Before the endless maze of trials, where every corridor bent her into someone else’s design.
She used to walk every day. Small loops, routes tied to the rhythm of her reports. The city streets had been her task, her duty, her excuse to exist in open air.
But since the golden thread, the very act of walking through Brandholt had become unbearable. Each step had felt like a blade scraping her throat, as if the city itself would snap her collar tight the moment she lingered too long. Walking meant exposure. Walking meant surrender. Walking meant capture.
And yet, her encounter with Arkwyn had cracked that fear.
He hadn’t tipped the guard. He hadn’t bound her with that suffocating barrier. He hadn’t even mocked her for the question she’d flung at him. He’d simply answered, plain as sunlight. Not all of it, true, but enough. Enough to unsettle, to unshackle something inside her.
So now she walked again. Not for the Accord. Not for the endless surveillance routines. Not to sift streets for threads of data that were never hers to keep.
No. This was different. This was hers.
Each step was a question. Each turn, a dare.
She wasn’t reporting. She wasn’t collecting. She wasn’t obeying.
She was testing.
Testing how far she could go.
And if the collar didn’t like it, if it clenched, if it burned, if it dragged her down into whatever punishment they had waiting...
Well. Then they’d all find out together, wouldn’t they?
So far, nothing. No tug at her neck, no invisible hand yanking her back. Just the steady rhythm of her boots on the street.
Brandholt bustled around her.
A narrow street lined with uneven cobbles and bricked gutters curled into a vibrant, winding district.
The air was alive with color and sound. Voices haggling in layered dialects, metal pans clattering in food stalls, and the constant press of footsteps on stone.
Shutters hung open above her, laundry flapping like soft flags overhead. Warm spices laced the breeze. A baker brushed sugar from his apron as he passed her, arms laden with braided loaves still steaming from the oven. Somewhere, a child laughed as their friend pelted them with dried leaves from a gutter pile.
Writ didn’t stop. She wasn’t hungry. Not today.
She patted the small pouch in her coat pocket, feeling the weight of coins she didn’t intend to spend. Her legs moved on their own now. One step. Then another. Quiet steps, practiced and invisible.
She kept going.
Away from the cafés, the crowds, the smell of grilled meats and fresh paint. Past the rows of banner-draped inns and lamplight spilling from crooked taverns. Beyond the center of the city, until her steps finally slowed.
Each street carried the same question. If Arkwyn hadn’t stopped her, if the collar hadn’t tightened yet, then how much farther could she press?
The north gate stood tall in front of her.
Its archway was flanked by four guards. They wore Bronze insignia, expressions neutral as they scanned the crowd.
A line had formed, split neatly into two. People on foot in one, wagons and carriages in the other. Traders mostly, some couriers, a few families bound for the open roads beyond.
Writ queued up with them, feeling out of place among the noise. Her heart didn’t race, but her shoulders tensed. The guards only asked for her name and ID. One of them scrawled it lazily onto a paper without glancing up. No challenge. No suspicion.
They waved her through.
And yet... she paused.
She stood right at the threshold, between city stone and open grass. Between structure and sky.
Would this count as desertion? Would the collar detonate here and now?
People brushed past her, eyes flicking over her silhouette, waiting a second too long before continuing.
She didn’t care.
She stepped once.
Onto the grass.
Nothing.
Then again. Another.
Five steps.
Then ten.
Still nothing.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The forest lay ahead, the treeline dark and unmoving. Wagons rattled down the road beside her, wheels crunching over packed dirt and gravel. A hawk shrieked in the distance.
She turned. Not toward the trees, but along the edge. Walking the perimeter. Following the natural curve.
Testing didn’t mean foolishness.
Soon the sounds faded.
The road, the chatter, the whine of cartwheels, all melted behind her. There was only wind now, brushing through tall grass, and the breath of leaves above her. She felt it in her sleeves, her hair, the band of her scarf.
She walked until the world grew still.
And then she sat.
The ground cradled her like a long-forgotten memory. She leaned back, lowered herself onto the grass.
Thick. Cool. The faint crackle of dry stems beneath her coat. Her hands flattened beside her.
Then she stared up.
The sky was vast. A soft black silk, pricked with silver.
She rarely saw it this clearly. Never so close to a city. She never allowed herself to. Lying down like this was vulnerability. It meant exposure. It meant risk.
But today... it didn’t matter.
After so many attempts to crack her open, mentally or otherwise, one more didn’t feel like danger anymore.
It felt like inevitability.
She inhaled. Long and deep. The scent of earth and distant pine filled her nose.
And for the first time in a long, long while... She felt alive.
Then came the voice.
“Lunlun! Here you are! I’m sorry I’m late.”
She opened her eyes slowly.
Kion hovered above her, his face haloed by starlight.
She’d long stopped asking how he always managed to find her.
Then he dropped down with a muffled thud. His wings folded in, though one trembled faintly before settling. She chalked it up to the landing.
“I didn’t know you enjoy stargazing,” he said, slowly lying down next to her.
“...That’s a thing?”
“Of course it is! Doesn’t it calm you down?”
“...Unsure.”
There was a pause before his voice dipped lower, “do you know…”
She turned her head, just slightly.
“Us fairies believe that stars are the lanterns of the lost,” he went on, “Hung high in the sky by those who found their way home, so others never have to wander alone.”
She looked back at the stars. She didn’t reply, and he didn’t press her.
He just let his words hang in the night air. Quiet, warm, like a wish.
“I hope one day,” Kion murmured, “you can stop walking alone and find your home, Lunlun.”
She blinked slowly, letting it settle. Letting the quiet in.
The words stirred another memory. An old woman with glitter smudged on her wrist, an old voice with a younger spirit, and the warmth behind that strange, lovely curse.
“May you break the leash before it outlives your name. And may the thread that binds you be kinder than the hands that spun it, quiet shadow.”
Where was she now? Still wandering? Still striking up talk with strangers sharing her wagon? Still laughing as if nothing could touch her?
Could someone like that survive an encounter with another shadow?
She thought of the black glitter on the woman’s wrist. The way it shimmered in low light, like starlight on skin.
“Kion,” she said.
He hummed beside her, the sound soft, almost lazy.
“Do you know about the black glitter group?”
Silence.
She turned her head to check. His eyes were closed, lashes resting against his cheeks. After a breath, he opened them and fixed his gaze on hers.
“How do you know them?” he asked.
“A man with black glitter on his wrist tried to ambush me when I was barely conscious,” she said, “then an old lady with the same glitter wished me free.”
He blinked once, slow, “that’s... kind of her.”
There was something in his voice, but she couldn’t name it.
“Weird, isn’t it?” she went on, “she knew who I was. Knew I’d chase her. But she still showed herself.”
“Did you get her?”
“No,” she glanced at her raised hands, “she vanished. Like mist. No trace.”
A pause.
“Wish I could disappear like that,” she murmured.
Kion was quiet for a while, gaze turned upward as though weighing her words.
“What would you do, if you could?”
“...I don’t know,” she admitted, “I don’t even know what to do now.”
“Fair enough,” he shifted faintly, “I wouldn’t know either.”
He folded his hands beneath his head, eyes thoughtful, “it’d be pointless if I were the only one who could disappear. I’d have to bring my dear friends, too.”
She gave him a sidelong glance, “you have friends?”
“I’m very popular, I’ll have you know,” he replied with mock offense, but his grin came a fraction late, as though pulled up over something heavier.
She let out a short, quiet breath that almost became a laugh.
Then it hit her.
Sharp. Sudden.
A pang behind her ribs.
Was she one of them? Would she be someone he’d bring along? Someone he’d want to disappear with?
She didn’t ask. Too afraid to know.
Instead, she let the silence fall again. Let her eyes drift up to the sky, to the stars that glittered far above.
She wished she was.
And for just one breathless moment, lying beneath the sky with starlight in her eyes and warmth lingering in her chest, Writ let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she could be.
Arkwyn's POV
Lurean's House, Brandholt City
The click of the door barely sounded before Mirev barreled forward.
“Grandma, you’re finally back!”
Her voice pitched high with joy as she threw her arms around the old woman, nearly knocking her off balance. Lurean stumbled back a step and collided into Fenwick, who caught her with a grunt.
“Careful,” Fenwick scolded, steadying both of them, “she’s not young anymore.”
“You’re not supposed to mention a lady’s age, young man,” Lurean retorted without missing a beat, her voice as light as her smile.
“Yes, yes, I apologize, my dear beloved old grandma Lurean who will always stay young and never grow old,” Fenwick intoned with mock reverence, then reached back to close the door behind them.
Mirev had already snatched her staff, twirling it like a wand, “can I turn him into a toad, ma? Sounds like he deserves it.”
“Oh nooo!” Fenwick shrieked theatrically, “Supreme High Council, help meee!”
He ducked behind Arkwyn’s chair with a melodramatic whimper. Arkwyn only chuckled, not looking up from the notes in his hand.
He rose, brushing non-existent lint from his sleeve as Lurean lowered herself into the sofa with a tired sigh. When she raised her hand, Arkwyn took it and pressed a polite kiss to her knuckles.
“Welcome back,” he said, quietly, “hope you enjoyed your trip?”
From behind him, Fenwick shivered audibly.
“See, Fenwick? Be a gentleman and learn from him,” Lurean said, shooting him a pointed look.
“That’s just an act! An act, I told you!” Fenwick wailed, “we all know what his actual personality is! Mirev, stop pointing your staff at me and eat your greens!”
Lurean’s laugh lilted. Arkwyn chuckled again, this time with a touch more warmth, before lifting a warning finger at them.
“If the two of you destroy this room, I’m sending you both to help Euri sort documents.”
That shut them up. For now.
“There’s no such thing as peace when those two meet,” he murmured, more to Lurean than anyone.
“Sometimes I wonder how many grandchildren I have in this room,” she replied wryly, “and how old they actually are.”
He laughed, stepping over to the side cabinet to prepare tea. His movements were brisk, efficient. The clink of porcelain and rustle of leaves soothed him, even as he caught snippets of Mirev and Fenwick bickering again.
“Are you hurt anywhere?” he asked, not glancing up.
“No new aches. Just my old friends, back pain and joint pain.”
“Well,” he said as he poured the tea, “sad knowing they love you that much.”
“That’s just what age mercilessly does to you, dear. Nothing weird.”
He handed her a cup and placed the second on the table before taking his seat again, “so. How was the trip?”
“Can’t you just let me finish my cup first?”
“I’d have to wait for hours in that case,” he replied dryly, “no thanks. Euri will drown me in paperwork by then.”
Lurean laughed, crisp and unbothered.
Mirev and Fenwick had found their truce and were now crowding around the table, reaching for snacks and pouring their own tea like unruly children in an unsupervised kitchen.
“As I’ve told you in the leafy message,” Lurean began, “I’ve closed down Axis Trail, all three.”
“And took your sweet, sweet, sweet time doing it, making us all worry about your joints,” Fenwick said, lifting his cup in exaggerated judgment.
Mirev elbowed him sharply enough to make him wince.
Arkwyn nodded, “it’s true we were worried, though.”
“I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, setting his cup down with deliberate calm, he asked, “well, I heard you met a Shadow.”
Mirev dropped a biscuit, “what?!”
Fenwick went still.
“Ah, the quiet one in Dryfen?” Lurean replied, unshaken, “yes. I sent her wishes through the wind.”
“You showed her your wrist,” Arkwyn said, voice soft but unwavering, “intentionally pushed mana to reveal the glitter.”
Mirev exploded, “you what?!”
Fenwick slapped a hand over her mouth before she could launch into a tirade.
“We designed those threads to be hidden,” Arkwyn continued, “to be shown only at will. They’re meant to identify allies. Avoid threats. Why would you reveal it to a Shadow?”
Lurean didn’t answer immediately. She let the steam from her cup rise between them, eyes hooded behind her spectacles.
“Because,” she said at last, “maybe she'd stayed long enough to hear the rumors. Maybe she wanted to come.”
Arkwyn’s jaw tensed, “we can’t risk smuggling a Shadow,” he said, voice low but firm, “not when they’re tied so deeply to their owner.”
Lurean hummed, “I can always try to tinker with that.”
“No,” Arkwyn said, sharper this time, “please don’t. Not in the open like that.”
Lurean sipped her tea, her face unreadable, “she looked pitiful,” she said simply, “like a stray kitten in an open box under the rain. I couldn’t help it.”
“A Shadow is far from a kitten, Grandma!” Mirev exclaimed after wriggling free, “that’s dangerous! I met one once. I could smell the blood on her hands!”
“Hate to agree,” Fenwick muttered, “but Mirev’s right. That was reckless.”
Lurean only lifted a brow, “just imagine,” she said, “you had the perfect childhood. Then your parents died. No one wanted you, except one group. One group that took you in, fed you, clothed you. And in return, asked you to dirty your hands. Told you that you owed them your life. And you had no way to leave.”
A pause.
“Isn’t that pitiful?”
“Only you would say that,” Mirev huffed.
“Doesn’t change the fact that it’s true,” Fenwick admitted quietly.
“Doesn’t change the fact that they kill people without reason, either,” Mirev shot back. Her eyes were glassy now, “yes, on paper it’s all ‘oathbreakers’ and ‘consequence,’ but we know better. We know what’s behind the curtain.”
Fenwick patted her back.
“They had a reason,” Arkwyn said, his voice low, almost reluctant, “because it’s either them or their target.”
A pause.
“And easy death was never an option given to them.”
Lurean nodded slightly, “pitiful, isn’t it?”
Nobody answered. Akrywn only exhaled and picked up the teapot again to refill his cup.
“But still too dangerous,” Arkwyn said, gentler now, “please don’t do that again. Especially not with the collared ones.”
Lurean’s eyes glittered, “oh my. How do you know she’s collared?”
Mirev had been dabbing her eyes, “please don’t tell me it’s Silent Writ again.”
Arkwyn didn’t respond.
“It is, isn’t it?”
“Most likely,” he admitted, “she told the little one herself. That she met an old woman with black glitter on her wrist.”
“Oh my,” Lurean murmured, “little one knows her?”
“It’s been his project since... who knows,” Fenwick grumbled, “'lately he ditches dinner with us to eat with her instead.”
Arkwyn only shrugged.
“Why is she everywhere?” Mirev asked, half-whispered, “is this a sign? A fate?”
“She’s not everywhere,” Fenwick replied, “I haven’t even met her yet.”
“You have,” Arkwyn said.
“What? When?! How does she look?!”
“Don’t tell him,” Mirev said immediately, “he’ll freak out worse than me. And then she’ll end us all for being too noisy.”
“You weren’t exactly subtle the second time you met her,” Arkwyn added.
“Well, sorry I’m not a master actor like you.”
“Wait! Stop! Why am I the only one not knowing?!”
“Anyway,” Arkwyn cut in smoothly, “don’t do that again, Lurean. Am I clear?”
“Clear as the sky, boy,” she replied with a wink.
“Don’t change the topic!” Fenwick yelped, “answer me!”
“Shut up, you’re noisy,” Mirev muttered.
“It’s for your safety too,” Arkwyn said, “for ours.”
“Yes, yes,” Lurean sighed, eyes fond, “don’t you start scolding me too, young man.”
The room grew louder again when the others arrived. Fenwick still half-hysterical and demanding answers, everyone else telling him to be quiet.
Lurean laughed quietly, sipping her tea and watching the chaos unfold around her with that glimmer in her eyes that only came when she truly felt home.
“One stray kitten,” she said softly, mostly to herself, “and now the house is full of pawprints.”