Kion's POV

  Public Library, East Wing, Kesherra Basin

  Nobody glanced their way as they stepped into Kesherra.

  Not at the massive iron-wrought main gate, nor at the silent checkpoint just beyond it, where tired sentries stared past them like they were already ghosts.

  Not along the library’s vast halls, lined with bookshelves that seemed to inhale every whisper and exhale silence.

  Writ’s issued identity passed unchallenged. Her face wore the same calm, practiced expression. No flicker of tension or surprise.

  She didn’t need to mask her thoughts. That burden belonged to Kion, whose tether wound around her like a soft, smoky haze. It dulled the edges of her presence, eased the sharpness in the air.

  For Kion, the tether was a bittersweet lull.

  Less biting than usual, but still a reminder to keep every thought locked tight. He didn’t have to bite down on his own mind as hard, not here.

  Not yet.

  Together, they moved between the shelves. Kion’s fingers brushed lightly against the worn spines, pointing to volumes too familiar to his eyes. Books he’d memorized and reread during his early days with Bronze, hoping to understand the tangled webs they were caught in.

  Writ gathered the tomes into a tall, teetering stack, careful not to crush the fragile pages. She carried them to a small corner table bathed in the warm glow of a lamp, its golden light spilling over the dust motes suspended in the air.

  Settling in, she opened the first book and leaned in. Eyes scanning lines of faded script, fingers gripping her pen, ready to capture every detail. Occasionally she paused, scribbling notes in her tidy, precise handwriting.

  The tether loosened its grip on Kion as her focus sharpened. Her attention no longer pricking at him like a persistent thorn.

  Kion sat nearby, alert and steady.

  He maintained the spell cloaking her features, blurring her outline so passersby remembered only a vague impression, a shadow in the corner of their vision.

  Around him, he cloaked himself in invisibility, slipping through the library’s watchful eyes.

  Then, as if to shatter the fragile calm, Mirev arrived, rebellious as ever, trailing behind Fenwick into the quiet sanctuary.

  Her sharp eyes caught the faint shimmer of Kion’s magic. Barely perceptible to anyone else, but she felt it instinctively. She froze mid-step, gaze snapping to him, then to Writ, still engrossed in her book. Mirev’s mouth fell open in shock.

  Kion straightened, a warning etched across his face.

  He raised a hand, shooing her away.

  Without a sound, Mirev clapped both hands over her mouth and bolted.

  Fenwick, unaware of the magic Mirev had sensed, continued forward until he noticed she hadn’t followed. Retracing his steps, he suddenly collided with her head-on, a sharp thud echoing through the library.

  Fenwick’s startled yell cut the silence, but neither had time to recover.

  Kion reacted instantly, flaring his obfuscation wider, desperate to blur the scene before any patron could discern the identities involved.

  Writ’s head snapped up, attention sharp.

  Others in the room turned too, their whispered murmurs threading through the sudden disturbance.

  “Are you okay?” a nearby scholar asked.

  “Yeah, just startled,” Fenwick answered quickly, glancing at Mirev.

  Writ craned her neck, trying to catch a clearer glimpse.

  Fenwick got to his feet, gently tugging at Mirev, who stubbornly kept her hands over her mouth as if her life depended on silence.

  “Sorry for the ruckus, everyone,” Fenwick called out, waving apologetically, “please, carry on.”

  He tried once more to pull Mirev away toward the hall.

  But she yanked free, shaking her head fiercely.

  “You go alone. I’ll head back to my room.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Mirev sprinted off, disappearing toward the entrance.

  Fenwick was left blinking, dumbfounded.

  “Lover’s quarrel?” the scholar who’d asked earlier joked, shaking his head, “man, you better chase her down and apologize. She’s probably embarrassed.”

  Writ’s eyes followed Mirev until she vanished from sight, then narrowed as they fixed on Fenwick.

  Without a word, Kion reached out with subtle telekinesis, guiding Fenwick’s path gently but firmly back toward the hall leading to Arkwyn’s library.

  Fenwick almost yelped again in surprise but caught on, nodding sheepishly before waving goodbye to the scholars who teased him.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Writ looked up at Kion, hovering above her, and signaled him down.

  Every muscle in her face remained taut. Alert, calculating, unyielding.

  He lowered himself between the open book and the towering pile beside her, settling into the quiet tension.

  “Someone used magic,” Writ whispered, voice low, eyes sharp, “but I can’t find the caster.”

  Kion’s gaze swept the room, masking the tight wince on his face.

  A faint trace of the earlier telekinetic nudge lingered in the air. Subtle, but enough that a trained eye might notice.

  “Yeah,” he murmured, “don’t take it as hostile, though.”

  She nodded, still scanning.

  The reading halted. Suspicion lingered like a shadow in the corners.

  “Just keep at it,” he said softly, “I’ll keep watch.”

  She looked at him, and he offered a small, reassuring smile.

  She nodded again and returned to her notes, pen scratching quietly on paper.

  Kion let out a breath so soft it might’ve been mistaken for the rustling pages.

  He silently wished to the stars above that the night would pass without further incident.

  That his heart, already tight with worry, could bear no more.

  The Silent Writ's POV

  Room 203, Binding Post Inn, Brandholt City

  Writ sat at the desk, lamplight pooling over a spread of paper, each sheet alive with her handwriting. The pen rested between her fingers, ready to weave her scattered notes into something coherent before the details slipped away.

  Nothing else had happened during her trip to the library. Only that brief commotion.

  A girl bumping into a man, his voice pitched too high with surprise or emotion, their rapid separation. And then... a flicker. A shimmer of magic that had slid across the room like a thin, imperceptible film.

  She still couldn’t place what kind of magic it had been. Kion hadn’t said either, but she agreed. It hadn’t felt hostile.

  Only now, back in her room, did she realize something far stranger.

  She couldn’t remember their faces.

  Not the curve of a jaw, not the lift of an eyebrow, not even the sound of their voices. It was as though the details had been plucked clean from her mind.

  A magic disguise, and a fine one. So subtle she couldn’t pinpoint when or where it had been cast. Either one of them was a mage of rare skill, or someone held a glyph-tech sophisticated enough to achieve it. Possibly both.

  And given that the man had entered the restricted hallway afterward... she didn’t have to imagine hard to see the ways that might have turned dangerous. She was lucky they hadn’t turned their attention toward her.

  Kion must have sensed something as well. His shoulders had been tight, his flight careful. Mages had ways of feeling each other’s presence. Something beyond words, something she’d never be able to experience herself.

  Had he cloaked her without her noticing, the way he’d imbued the orb charm in Zeirath? Was that why neither the man nor the girl had reacted to her?

  But no. She hadn’t felt it. She knew the way Kion’s magic felt. The faint bleed in the air whenever he hovered an object, the subtle hum it left in its wake. When he shielded her with his barrier, as he had the night before, she could sense the mana residue like a breath against her skin. None of that had been there this time.

  A faint thump above the bathroom door drew her from her thoughts. The whisper of wings. He’d taken the vent again.

  She glanced over her shoulder as he emerged. Freshly washed, hair damp, the star pattern on his pajamas scattered like a quiet sky.

  But it was his expression that caught her.

  “What are you doing?” His voice was flat, and the crease between his brows deepened.

  “...writing?”

  “What time is this?”

  “...oh-two-hundred... -ish.”

  “I don’t recall you telling me it has to be done in the morning.”

  “No. Fourteen hundred.”

  “Then go to sleep. Now.”

  The firmness in his tone made her flinch. It pressed against a memory. The ruin, his voice sharp enough to cut. The exhaustion pulling at his features now only deepened the echo.

  She’d noticed it earlier, when he’d first slipped into her room. The overtime had gnawed at him. Not his body so much as his mind. The slow drag in his screech earlier had been proof enough.

  That was why she hadn’t expected him to insist on coming with her to Kesherra. She’d been ready to go alone. But he had insisted, and she wouldn’t deny it. It had steadied her.

  Still... the report. She could keep going. She didn’t need to stop.

  “May I... refuse?” The words left her in a low whisper.

  His eyes narrowed, the weight of them heavy with fatigue. Then he pressed a palm to his brow, exhaling a long sigh.

  “I’m not giving you a command. Of course you can refuse.”

  He flew to the bed, tugging up a pillow he’d claimed as his own.

  “Still wish you’d rest first, though. Better for your health. You’ll be fresher in the morning...,” his gaze flicked toward her desk, toward the mess of paper and ink. He landed again, dragging his pillow to the corner near the wall.

  “...and I’m fairly certain you’ll still finish it in time after you wake. You write fast, and I know most of it is already drafted in your head. I can also offer the sleep aid if you have trouble falling asleep.”

  He settled on his bed-pillow, adjusting until he found a comfortable shape.

  Her eyes lingered on the papers in front of her.

  Not a command.

  She could refuse.

  He wished she would rest first.

  Healthier. Fresher.

  Fast writer.

  Already drafted.

  The pen hung motionless between her fingers.

  She didn’t know why those words felt strange in her chest. Like something warm and heavy she didn’t know how to hold. No one had said that to her before.

  “No?” His voice drifted from the bed, “alright then, I’ll sleep first. Take your time.”

  He lifted a hand in a lazy wave before letting it fall.

  Another blink. Another pause. Then she set the pen down, gathering the scattered papers and stacking them neatly.

  When she turned, his breathing had already deepened.

  She moved her pillow quietly beside his and eased herself onto the bed.

  His eyes cracked open just enough to find her. The faintest smile curved his mouth, “welcome back,” he murmured, before slipping under again.

  She lay on her side, watching the even rise and fall of his chest. His wings were tucked tight, his small frame curled against the pillow he’d chosen. Only now did she notice the second, smaller cushion beneath his head. A soft mound of moss or plant fibers, shaped perfectly for him.

  The detail made her smile without thinking.

  Maybe he was right. She should sleep first. It wouldn’t hurt.

  She pulled her blanket up slowly, careful not to disturb his bed-pillow, and let her eyes drift closed. Cradling the warmth that had settled deep between her ribs.

  If she could, she’d hold the moment still, let it stretch into forever, and forget that anything waited beyond the quiet.