The eighth bell was long gone, and there was still no sign of Kion.

  She admitted they hadn’t set an exact time for their meeting, only 'tonight.' His work had probably held him in place after arriving late this morning, especially after ditching it past lunchtime. He was likely being forced to make up for the lost hours.

  She didn’t mind. Not really. But she wished there were some way to know he was still coming, that he wouldn’t leave. Something to keep her from spiraling into abandonment.

  Her draft lay open on the desk. Crossed words, crowded margins, but the structure was there. Enough. Tomorrow she’d copy it cleanly, the way she had with the last report.

  She put the coin pouch back to her pocket and took mana stone from her satchel.

  The faint scuffle of air drew Writ’s attention just as her fingers tapped the mana stone against her collar, charging it with a muted hum.

  She froze mid-tap, eyes narrowing toward the ceiling vent. The grate rattled, and a shadow dropped cleanly through, landing on the desk with practiced grace. Kion folded his arms in that familiar, easy pose, his smile bright as polished glass.

  “Good evening!” His voice was light, ringing with its usual warmth, as if he had never known a darker tone.

  Writ answered with the smallest tug of her mouth, slipping the stone back into her satchel as the collar gave its faint answering ping.

  She had promised him. Tonight, she would tell him, and in return, she would ask what she needed to know. But with the moon high and him beside her, the words she had carried so neatly in her chest felt swollen, too heavy to breathe into the night.

  As if sensing that hesitation, Kion tilted his head, “I didn’t bring dinner tonight. Are you fine with the tavern below?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Then I’ll fetch it. What do you want?”

  Writ reached out before he could take off, her hands closing around him carefully, avoiding the fragile brush of wings, “no. Stay here. I’ll get it tonight.”

  He kept his smile. Seamless, unbroken. But the blink that followed came a fraction too late.

  Writ’s fingers tightened briefly before letting him go.

  She pulled her cloak around her shoulders, cracked the door to peer into the hall, then glanced back to ensure he hadn’t followed before stepping out.

  Her stride carried her down the corridor at a measured pace, not fast enough to betray nerves, not slow enough to linger. These paths she knew too well. Countless repetitions had etched them into her body.

  She didn’t know why she had insisted on going herself. Perhaps because she wasn’t ready. Her heart hadn’t settled since the moment of his arms around her, and her mind was no steadier. To face him so soon, without the armor of delay, felt impossible.

  The tavern below was half full, noise muffled into a steady hum. The fare was plain by design, never more than passable, meant to sustain without drawing comment.

  The woman at the counter greeted her with a knowing smile, “the usual?”

  Writ pressed her ID stone to the ident-station. It glowed faintly, “yes. Add a sweet bun and berry tart.”

  The woman’s grin widened, “someone’s got a sweet tooth tonight.”

  Writ’s answer was a steady nod, “tea too.”

  “Coming right up,” the woman barked the order toward the kitchen, then slipped back into the rhythm of serving others.

  It was one of the quiet advantages of a place like this. The staff knew enough not to pry. They didn’t care if she wore no disguise, only her cloak. They would not chatter, not to someone like her. Peripheral lived as if in daylight, but always half in shadow. The most normal lives the Accord allowed. A job, a cover, a neighborly smile. Reports and relocations tucked behind the curtain.

  Nine had probably lived like this once. Laughter folded into a false day, only to be pulled away when the string was tugged.

  Her tray came. She carried it back upstairs, steady despite the heat seeping through the cups.

  Her door yielded under her elbow. Inside, Kion had shifted, abandoning his lounging flight for a neat perch. He drifted closer, voice bright, “what did you get?”

  “Fruit jam bun. Tart. Tea,” she set the tray on the desk and sat.

  Kion alighted beside it, eyes flicking to the broth and bread she hadn’t named aloud. The smile that touched his face was soft, but touched with something else. A shade thinner, a shade sadder.

  Writ lifted her spoon, sipped broth. The warmth steadied her hands.

  Kion’s voice cut lightly through, “share the bun with me?”

  She nodded, “make my half smaller.”

  His grin lit at once, bright as ever.

  But as he bit into the tart, chewing with practiced cheer, she felt the dissonance. A weight out of tune with his voice. A rhythm lagging just a half-beat behind. Like listening to music where the melody rang flawless, but the harmony faltered beneath it.

  She studied him quietly, eyes catching on the seamless ease of his brightness. Hoping for the crack in it, for the faintest flicker that betrayed what his mask refused to show.

  Hoping for an answer in the off-warmth of his presence.

  Kion's POV

  Room 203, Binding Post Inn, Brandholt City

  Kion pulled his illusion tighter as he lifted his cup, letting the steam curl against his face before taking a measured sip.

  The tea scalded his tongue, but that was good. Something solid to anchor against.

  He wove the smiling mask closer. Ironing out the faint tremor in his lips, softening the puff around his swollen eyes, tucking his rawness into a neat picture of cheer.

  The tether told him it was... enough.

  Not convincing, not to her.

  She was watching him too long, too intently. Every flicker in her gaze marked another piece of the disguise she’d noticed.

  “So,” he said, pitching his tone light, nudging the magic to lift his inflection just so, “tell me about today’s task?”

  Not about the resignation.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  That was what he most wanted to ask. But she had never promised him that. Only her task.

  Writ finished her water and dabbed at her mouth with the corner of a napkin, “I stayed in the same dorm with today’s subject for around... a year, maybe.”

  So that was it. That sharp edge of recognition. The way the woman had almost shouted at Writ with her 'I know you'.

  “She was assigned to get close to Jorath and Isolde Tovan,” Writ continued, “then to kill them. But she warned them to flee instead.”

  A pause.

  “At least that’s what they suspect.”

  He already knew. He’d been in the room to watch her.

  He remembered, too.

  The panic in Arkwyn’s room when the Tovans came hammering for Glitterstorm’s passage, reversing years of stubborn refusal in a single night.

  The pieces aligned easily now.

  “Do you think she actually warned them?” he asked.

  Writ hesitated, fingers twitching toward her pocket, “...yes.”

  Her shame bled through the tether, low and heavy.

  “Why?”

  Instead of answering, she turned her gaze on him, sharp and searching, “what’s empathy really, Kion? I know the word. I know they use it to describe someone who cares too much. But what does it actually mean?”

  He leaned back, floating in the air, arms folding behind his head in an exaggerated ease he didn’t feel.

  “Empathy is... the ability to borrow someone else’s shoes for a while,” he said at last, “except the shoes are feelings.”

  His arms folded across his chest, as if to hold in everything else.

  “So when someone hurts, it feels like your own ribs ache. When someone laughs, it tugs your smile out before you can think. People with empathy... they notice what others try to bury, and they feel it too.”

  He gathered his magic, weaving a small soundproof barrier around himself without a gesture. Subtle, transparent, hidden.

  "Just like how the tether forces your feelings down my throat."

  The barrier unraveled, dissolving quietly into the air. He had needed to say it aloud. To drag the words out of his chest. But never for her ears.

  “That’s... dangerous,” she murmured.

  “For an extent, it is.”

  Her fingers brushed her chin, lost in thought, “is that how you... seem to read my mind sometimes?”

  Stars, how he wanted to tell her the truth.

  Instead, he flashed an easy grin, “maybe? I don’t really label it. It just happens.”

  A lie.

  It wasn’t empathy. It was something else.

  Yet fear touched the tether. Small, hidden, but there.

  “What happened next?” he asked, keeping his tone breezy, “did the subject act strange again today?”

  “No, not really. It went... quite well, I think? She answered most of it, didn’t act strange. Other than the hug at the end of the session.”

  He widened his eyes in feigned surprise, “she hugged you?”

  Writ nodded.

  Then, with an awkward laugh, “is that why you offered me a hug too? To compare?”

  Her eyes flicked toward him, uncertain, “...yes.”

  Embarrassment laced with fear poured through the tether, twinned and sharp.

  He cursed inwardly.

  Landmine.

  “Oh,” he said, the word hollow in his mouth.

  “I... didn’t expect you to have a human form,” she added, fumbling, “I thought you’d... hug my arms or something.”

  And now the mine went off.

  Perfect.

  Great work, Kion.

  He pressed a grin over his face, bright and careless, “well, wouldn’t be able to blend in with humans if I couldn’t, don’t you think?”

  Her expression cleared as if a puzzle piece had clicked into place, “right. Why didn’t I think of that.”

  But the fear didn’t ebb.

  Why?

  What was she afraid of now?

  She scooted her chair closer, “so every fairfolk can do that?”

  “Some can, others cannot,” he shrugged, “depends on the individual.”

  Not exactly. For him, it was illusion woven over telekinetic barriers, held warm with a spark of fire magic. His own body made mimicry.

  But that truth stayed locked.

  “What’s next, then?” he pressed gently, “done after the hug?”

  Her head tilted. Fear dulled a little, “that... I might need help deciphering.”

  “Mhm?”

  She crossed to the desk, rummaged beneath a pile of papers, and pulled two slips of note, 'good luck' written in both.

  He remembered seeing them in prep. At first, he’d thought they were harmless encouragement. Now, not so simple.

  “Can you feel any magic from these?” she asked, hope thrumming faintly through the tether.

  He took them, turned them over in his fingers. Nothing. No trace.

  “No. Nothing.”

  “So it won’t reveal anything if I burn it?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  She fetched a candle from the bathroom, lit the wick, and fed each note to the flame. They curled, blackened, and collapsed to ash on the desk.

  “Nothing really happened...,” disappointment edged her voice.

  “Do you want something to happen?” he asked softly.

  She didn’t answer right away.

  “I received those from Caustic,” she said at last, settling back into her chair, “he wished me good luck out loud the first time, three days ago. Yesterday he gave me these written ones.”

  Caustic. Likely the man in black who had lingered outside the interrogation room.

  “Then Caedern, the Judge, offered to ‘grease the wheel’ after the session.”

  His gut tightened. So that was the name of the man who had whispered to her.

  The one who made her flee him like an omen.

  But why did that name sound familiar?

  “What does that mean?”

  “That’s the problem. I don’t know,” she shifted uneasily, “something will change. The rhythm, the rules. Both hints say as much, but I don’t know what. I can’t prepare for what I can’t see.”

  Her expectation nestled in his chest, fragile as glass.

  He hated to be the one who diminished her hope.

  He should've roamed the next room behind the glass this morning instead of following her.

  Should've sneak in and find out what's next they'd prepared for her instead of admiring her from afar.

  Should've-

  “I’m... afraid, Kion.”

  Her voice trembled. She stared at the floor, fingers twisting in her lap. Fear slammed through the tether like a storm tide. Dread, panic, raw terror. His stomach lurched with it.

  He dropped down on the desk beside her and laid a hand over her forearm, patting it once, “anything I can do to help? I could try storming in. Maybe find out... things.”

  Another reckless impulse.

  He didn’t even know the layout, the codes, whether the vents were safe to slip through. He knew none of that.

  Still, he would do it.

  Through the tether, the fear shifted.

  Less about the Judge and more about him.

  She shook her head, then hesitated, “can you... please... drop your act?”

  “Huh?”

  “I... noticed. Something felt different. Like you’re trying too hard to stay cheerful.”

  Her shame curled under the fear, knotted together. Bracing for punishment for something she hadn’t even done.

  “You don’t have to pretend,” she whispered, “not with me. If you’re angry, just yell. Hit me if you have to. Anything’s better than you smiling like nothing’s wrong. Just don’t fake it. Not with me. Please.”

  He froze.

  Blinked once, twice.

  Her words drove straight through him. Fear poured across the tether, thick and suffocating.

  But why this? Why now?

  Her head dipped lower.

  Silence thickened until her voice broke through, thin and fragile, “it’s... it’s because of the hug, right? Because I didn’t respond the way I should have? I can learn. You can hug me as much as you want.”

  The storm inside her spiked. Fear twisted into panic, sharp and desperate. The terror of being abandoned.

  “Just... don’t make it look like everything’s fine and then leave me. Please.”

  How had she leapt here? What bridge had he missed?

  Had he somehow lost a memory, skipped some crucial step?

  He moved slowly, letting his glamour unfurl until his human feet touched the floor. The shape eased into place, the familiarity settling over her like recognition.

  He sank to one knee in front of her. His right hand found hers, fingers weaving through with a deliberate gentleness.

  “Alright,” he said, steady, almost solemn, “you’re allowing me to hit you. So I’ll do just that.”

  Her breath caught.

  She nodded once, squeezed her eyes shut, shoulders tight, bracing.

  A soft exhale from him.

  Then, with his left hand, he touched her cheek. Feather-light, barely a tap, his palm lingering there as if to hold the moment still.

  “Done. One hit. Please... open your eyes.”

  Her lashes fluttered.

  She blinked rapidly, confusion flashing across her face as her gaze darted to him.

  He let his thumb trace her cheekbone, steadying himself as much as her, “you caught me. I was trying too hard. I didn’t want you to worry. I’m sorry.”

  Her lips parted, silent.

  “The hug wasn’t wrong,” he added, voice low, careful, “it made my day better. And you weren’t wrong either. You don’t have to force yourself. You don’t owe me anything. Not even that.”

  The silence stretched tight. He matched her breath, steadying it by force.

  “I’ll still be here,” he said at last, “I’ll keep being here. Even if there’s never another hug. That won’t change.”

  Her gaze stayed locked on him, wide, trying to catch up.

  He didn’t even need the tether to read her. Her eyes told him everything.

  Relief washing over mountains of fear... only to give way to something else.

  Contentment. Realization.

  And then a sharper edge of fear. One he knew too well, one he almost cherished.

  Dependency.

  Her hands trembled, slipped from his.

  Then, with clumsy finality, she sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around him in a stiff, halting embrace.

  For a beat he froze.

  Then slowly, deliberately, he gathered her back into his arms. One hand rested between her shoulders, the other brushed against her hair.

  “...Thank you,” he whispered.

  He let the silence linger, holding her steady.

  “This isn’t about getting it right. Just being here like this... it’s enough. More than enough.”

  Her nod pressed against his chest.

  He held her closer, voice soft against her hair, “I told you before. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Another nod.

  “Not after this. You couldn’t push me away if you tried.”

  He wasn’t sure if he’d spoken the last line aloud or only in thought. But her arms tightened around him, relief flaring warm and bright.

  Which meant, even if he’d slipped and spoken more than he meant, she accepted it.

  And stars help him, he savored it. Savored her.

  The way she was this willing, binding them both.