She froze mid-motion, hand still hovering above the chair’s backrest.
Waited.
A knock followed. Four short, one quick burst.
Her breath hitched.
Her eyes flicked to the door, heart lurching before it started to race.
Grade four.
Why? Why now? What had they prepared this time?
Her feet carried her forward with uneasy calm. She opened the door, just a crack, and found what she expected.
A thick, folded paper rested on the floor. Tightly sealed with dark bronze wax, the Accord’s sigil sunken deep into it.
She glanced up and down the corridor.
Empty. No one.
She bent down, took the paper, and closed the door again without a sound. Her fingers clenched the envelope too tightly.
She had received a grade four twice before. Back when she'd just started to understand their games. When she was still new enough to be tested, but smart enough to paint her record spotless. Flawless, even.
And once more in Karmith. Her last mission there.
Neither had been a pleasant experience.
They didn’t assign grade four unless it involved something highly sensitive, or lethally dangerous.
And they didn’t give them to someone under watch, not unless they had a very specific reason.
Writ tapped the coin pouch in her pocket. The familiar clink of coins grounded her, as though she had trained herself to rely on it.
It didn’t help. Her heart still beat too fast.
Still, she unfolded the letter.
Dustkeeper Web. Classified.
Assigned: 071734 (solo)
Handler brief required.
That was it.
Nothing more.
No details. No timeframe. No names. No context.
She flipped the paper. Lifted it to the light. Hovered it against the glow of her ward lamp.
Nothing.
No secret layers. No invisible ink.
They’d given her a grade four and not even a chance to prepare.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. Her fingers went cold.
She stepped into the bathroom, lit a small candle, and held the paper over it until the edges curled and turned black. The smoke smelled sharp. Bitter. Like burnt iron.
She dropped the ashes into the sink, turned the water on, and rubbed them down the drain with shaking fingers.
Then she splashed water on her face.
Once.
Again.
A third time.
She leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the sink, hair dripping. Her eyes locked on her own reflection in the mirror.
Didn’t wipe the water away.
Let it fall. Each drip echoing like a metronome into the basin.
Inhale. Hold.
Exhale. Hold.
It’s going to be okay.
It’s going to be fine.
You’ve survived this before.
You can survive it again.
The collar around her neck gave a faint hum. No louder than usual, but today it felt more alive. As if it was listening. As if it knew.
She splashed her face again, as if the sting of cold water could drown the panic.
Inhale. Hold.
Calm down.
Exhale. Hold.
It’s alright.
Inhale. Hold.
It’s going to be alright.
Exhale. Hold.
Please let it be alright.
She met her own eyes in the mirror. Unreadable. Then wiped her face with a slow, firm drag of the towel.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
The motions that followed were practiced. Each step of putting on her disguise mechanical and smooth. Wig. Coat. Boots. All while trying to slow her breath, quiet her thoughts, tame her pulse.
By the time she knelt to check the doorwatch glyph, she’d almost steadied her hands.
Then came a tap against the window glass.
She straightened. Walked across the room. Pulled back the curtain.
Kion’s face blinked back at her, surprised.
She opened the latch, swung the window open. The surprise on his face vanished immediately, replaced by concern.
He landed in a half-crouch on the bed, eyes fixed on hers. His wings folded in, one trembling faintly before stilling. She almost remembered the same tremor under starlight. This time, she didn’t let herself linger on it.
“I felt something wrong, so I came to check,” he said, voice low and focused.
She moved to close the window behind him, drawing the curtain again.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“A hunch,” he murmured, “you’re going out? Something happening?”
“A summon,” she replied, “grade four. Won’t be pleasant.”
“Ah...” Kion exhaled, glancing down for a beat.
“Do you have any intel what the mission will be?”
He shook his head, frustrated.
“I have no idea. I’m sorry...”
“It’s the ninth hour. Are you even allowed to be here?”
He grimaced faintly.
“Well... technically, no. I told them I’d be taking a long toilet break.”
Her voice softened, but just barely.
“Then go back,” she said. A small tremble escaped into her words, “I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” he said gently.
“I should be. I’m summoned.”
A long pause.
She didn’t look at him as she added, low.
“Go.”
“If you say so...”
Kion stepped toward the window, floated up into the frame, and turned back to face her before leaving.
“I’ll come tonight. Tell me your story later.”
“If I’m not in my room, don’t come to me.”
He blinked, “what? Why?”
She kept her voice steady now, stripped of softness.
“Whatever made you come here now. Whatever hunch you get from whatever I do. It’ll happen a lot. For... I don’t know how long. You don’t need to come every time it happens.”
“And I might not be in my room at night. If that happens... don’t search for me.”
“Lunlun...”
“I mean it,” she cut in, “they’ll be watching more closely now. They’ll use whatever they can.”
“I can stay hidden. They won’t see me.”
“I can’t have you around me when they’re watching.”
Another beat passed.
“I’ll... expect the warmth if you’re around,” she added, quieter now, “and that’ll kill me. Directly or not.”
A pause.
“Or worse. That’ll kill us.”
Kion blinked again, fast, as if clearing something from his eyes. His wings twitched faintly.
“Alright then,” he said, softer, “I’ll only wait for you in this room.”
She nodded, turned without another word, and walked to the door.
“I hope... it won’t be too mean today,” Kion said behind her.
She raised a hand and waved, not looking back.
“Lock the window when you’re out.”
“Surely do.”
She opened the door and stepped into the corridor. The room fell silent behind her.
The window stayed closed after she shut the door. Kion remained on the sill, watching her.
And she walked.
To whatever hell they’d throw her into today.
She hoped it wouldn’t be too cruel.
She hoped it wouldn’t shatter her before it even began.
She was told to go in the moment she arrived. No waiting, no preamble. That alone sent a quiet ripple through her thoughts.
The door to Tiran’s office stood open. She stepped through, posture steady, hands hanging at her sides in that disciplined middle ground between ease and defiance.
The room was unchanged, the five figures placed exactly as memory left them, pieces frozen mid-game.
The Veiled on her left, unreadable as stone. Tiran at center, gaze level and weighing. Caedern on the right, one leg crossed, a grin playing faint at the edges.
To the far left, the quill-woman, arms folded. On the far right, Caustic Ink, tall, still, the kind of stillness that listened. Both stood.
On the table before Tiran sat her notebook. Familiar. Closed. Beside it, two bundles of paper.
Her breath caught, just slightly. She moved forward.
The first bundle was hers. The tracings she’d copied until the lines blurred in her vision.
The second wasn't. The margins were off, the paper weight wrong, someone else’s hand. She did not linger on it.
She reached the chair set for her and remained standing one step behind it.
Two others were in the room, Verdict Wings, stationed by the door behind her. One on each side. Their presence too close, their robes marked with that sigil of wings. Nervous, both of them. She didn’t look twice.
Her attention belonged to Tiran.
“Silent Writ.”
Tiran’s voice pulled the room tighter.
“We’ve confirmed your tracings are exact across all three copies,” he said, fingertips resting on her notebook, “what you read and what you wrote, consistent.”
No accusation yet. Just the scaffolding.
“We’ve also analyzed your notebook further,” Tiran continued, “and found something... peculiar. Because of that, Verdict Wings will check you directly.”
The two behind her moved at once, footsteps soft on wood. They flanked her, left and right, close enough she could sense their breathing. She braced without shifting.
Magic pooled at her feet, cold not in temperature but in sensation, like stepping into a black lake at night. It rose, calves, waist, chest, neck, until it sheathed her whole body.
She kept breathing. Kept her eyes fixed on the empty space beyond Tiran’s shoulder. Inside, she locked every door.
The office was silent but for the soft hum of the spell. The weight of five sets of eyes pressed against her skin.
Minutes. Then, release. The magic drained all at once, leaving only gravity, tension, breath.
“I don’t find any trace of that mana,” the mage to her left said.
“Neither do I,” the other added.
The Veiled shrugged. Caedern’s grin deepened by a shade.
“You may step back,” Tiran told them. They bowed in unison and returned to their post by the door, their footsteps soft against the rug.
Then he looked at her. For a long time, too long.
Not the idle gaze of someone distracted, but the weighty stillness of a man turning over pieces on an unseen board. Measuring angles. Waiting to see which way she’d tilt.
The Veiled remained as she was, chin propped on one hand. Writ couldn’t see her expression, but she could feel the quiet, brittle boredom radiating from her, like someone stuck watching a play they’d already guessed the ending of.
Across the table, Caedern lounged with that infuriating half-smile, as if he’d been promised a good show and was simply biding his time until it started.
Whatever he was waiting for, it wouldn’t be good for her.
Even the Quill pair, usually stone-faced, held a touch more tension in their shoulders than before.
Her gaze flicked briefly to the notebook still lying on the table, close enough for Tiran’s fingertips to touch. That was the anchor in the room. The reason she was here.
If it was about the ruin again, fine.
She’d prepared for that. She had an answer ready for every detail she’d lived through, every report she’d filed, every question they thought they could corner her with.
If this was the grade four, it probably wouldn’t be too hard.
She hoped that was the case.
Because if it wasn’t...
Writ straightened her stance just slightly.
...then the hard part hadn’t even begun.