Writ’s hands rested at her sides, fingers brushing the folded checklist she’d already tucked away. The faint tang of ink clung to the room, and Caustic’s pen gave one last reluctant scratch before stalling, as if even it had given up.
She met no eyes, but felt them all the same. The deliberate weight of Tiran’s gaze, the sharp amusement glinting behind Caedern’s smirk, Caustic’s silent, relentless tallying. It pressed in, neither hostile nor approving. Just observing.
Finally, Tiran’s voice cut through, calm and deliberate, “any other questions?”
A shuffle of papers. Chairs settling. The question hung, rhetorical, leaving behind a hollow where words might have been.
Caedern’s voice came next, precise and clipped, “none.”
“No,” Caustic added.
Tiran nodded once.
Another pause followed. Longer, heavier. The kind of silence that marked an ending without declaring it. Writ knew they were finished with her answers.
What remained now was the shift. The recalibration of weight, the thread of consequence stretching ahead, and her, caught waiting.
Then Tiran spoke, “that’s all for today.” A beat of quiet. “Return tomorrow. Zero eight thirty hours. You’re dismissed.”
She nodded almost automatically, “understood.”
The word left her too quickly. Then she blinked. A glance at Tiran. At Caustic. Her mask hid the confusion crawling in her chest.
Caustic gave a slight shake of his head.
She stilled, confusion snagging her thoughts. She tried to parse what she had missed, what she was meant to understand.
Caedern leaned back, tilting his head, “waiting for something?”
Her eyes flicked to him, too eager, too delighted, then back to Tiran, “no preparation?”
“You’ll know,” Tiran said, flat, “you don’t need to prepare.”
She blinked again. This time catching Caedern’s raised eyebrow, the smug curve of his mouth whispering told you.
“...Understood. I’ll take my leave.”
The tension in her chest swelled, a faint shiver in her hands. She buried it. Outwardly, she walked as though nothing had shifted.
Measured steps carried her through the door, past Tiran’s office, past the waiting room. She reached the corridor, then the lobby. The hall had thinned, but the receptionist’s desk still buzzed. Clerks helping civilians sort through oathmaking requests, a scatter of voices rising and fading like a tide. Writ’s eyes scanned the space, then turned away.
Only when the heavy main doors shut behind her did the mask begin to slip. Her boots carrying her across the street, to the inn crouched behind the Accord’s building.
She mounted the narrow stairs, one slow step at a time, until she reached the second floor and sealed her room behind her.
The latch clicked. She leaned back against the wood and slid down until she sat on the floor. Her arms wrapped around herself without permission.
The double good luck. That had been the cause. Caustic hadn’t been able to say it aloud this time, because there was nothing to prepare. That’s why he’d doubled it earlier. Why Caedern had smirked when he made his offer.
Either they wanted her unsettled. Or they thought she didn’t need the rhythm anymore. Both possibilities cut sharp. Both were dangerous.
They hadn’t let her stabilize. File thoughts. Rehearse the questions. They hadn’t given her a name, a history, a subject at all. Only 'you’ll know'.
What did that mean?
Did it mean she was beyond testing? Already failing? Or worse, did they think preparation might actually help her, and so they’d taken it away to see how she broke?
Would they put someone in front of her cold? No anchor questions, no checklist, nothing but raw silence? Watch her stumble in improvisation?
But no. Tiran had said she would know.
Someone she’d known, then? One of the previous subjects? Nine again, Rowan, even Kion? Old teammates she hadn’t bothered to remember because she’d assumed she would never see them again?
Or maybe it wasn’t an interrogation at all. Maybe she was the subject this time.
Her stomach tightened.
What for? What about? Hadn’t the report already been her interrogation? Hadn’t she been dissected enough?
Or was this to be something different. A follow-up test, a progression? Did they want her to pass judgment outright? Or had they already set the sentence and only needed her to carry it out?
That scenario would be easiest. Execution was clean. Direct. It wouldn’t require thought. Which was exactly why it probably wasn’t the case.
Her breath caught.
Perhaps they weren’t interested in execution by her at all. Perhaps they meant execution of her.
The collar pulsed at her throat, almost in response. Cruel enough. Too clean. Too easy. Maybe they wanted something else.
She shivered, pulling Kion’s pouch from her pocket. Hugging it against her chest, she pressed it tight, as if the little weight could anchor her through the thought.
Would Tiran really have spoken so calmly if that were true? Wouldn’t he-? No. He wouldn’t.
Her mind snagged on Caedern’s words from earlier.
“Is that so? Don’t cry to Tiran when you regret it. He won’t bother.”
Tiran had steadied her before, a grounding weight. Firm. Reliable. But that didn’t mean protection. He’d ordered her to eliminate other Harbingers himself. He wouldn’t hesitate if the order turned inward.
Her stomach twisted. She hated that Caedern had been right. Tiran wouldn’t bother.
Her knees drew up before she realized it. She set the pouch on them, folded her arms over, and pressed her forehead against bone. A trembling breath escaped, unsteady, before she forced herself to still.
But... no. If that were true, Caustic wouldn’t have said good luck.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
They’d only just met. If she were marked for disposal, why give her silent support? Why bother with the tap of a steady hand? Caustic wasn’t Caedern. He didn’t relish cruel jokes. And he wasn’t under Caedern’s leash, so he hadn’t done it on command.
He’d said good luck, not rest in peace. Which meant something remained to survive. Which meant tomorrow wasn’t the end.
Maybe it really would be another interrogation.
Maybe they just wanted to strip away the rhythm, watch if she fractured without scaffolding.
Her hands still shook. The panic clung, thick, refusing to let go. But she could not afford to feed it. Paranoia wouldn’t keep her alive. It would only drag her down.
So she pushed herself upright, slow and unsteady, and moved into the bathroom. She tugged the wig free, dropped it on the counter, and splashed water onto her face until it dripped down her collar, soaking into her shirt. She stared into the mirror.
The green stone on her collar pulsed faintly, as if greeting her. A reminder. Still there. Still binding.
Inhale. Hold it.
It will be another interrogation.
Exhale. Hold.
It must be.
Inhale. Hold.
It has to be.
Exhale. Hold.
Please, just another interrogation.
She wiped her face on a towel, changed into a clean shirt, and crossed to the desk. She slid open the drawer and pulled out her stored writings from the previous sessions. Her fingers brushed over the pages, anchoring herself in the only preparation she had left.
If tomorrow brought more judgments to pass, she would be ready.
If not...
She pressed her palm against the papers, as though bracing against a strike.
Then she could only hope she was strong enough to take the hit.
Kion's POV
Othvarn Grand Assembly Hall, Brandholt City.
He could feel her imagining death again this afternoon. The thought knotted his chest, made his fingers itch to slip free from the social bindings and bolt back to her side.
Almost. Almost enough to leave the event behind again, to tear through the corridors and find her before she could spiral any further.
But the impulse passed, as quickly as it came. Fenwick’s hand gripped his arm, steady and firm, an anchor against his own recklessness. One sharp glance at him and the thought of leaving vanished. Not completely gone, he couldn’t fool himself, but subdued enough to breathe.
He had already forfeited nearly half of the Othvarn commemorative event to follow Writ. That absence, though invisible to most, might yet be noticed by the right eyes. At the very least, he could still sit through the ceremonial closing. Show presence, avoid the impression that the High Councilor of Knowledge’s staff meant to irk the nobles. Euri had pressed that point emphatically.
The other members had nodded in agreement, expressions all business. Nobody wanted to offend nobles, least of all the Othvarns. A marquis house, they had stood firm on the borderlands since the age before Concord. Their wealth, their legacy, and the reach of their influence stretched far beyond the sparkling fa?ades of the manor halls.
Bronze Concord had risen from the ashes of the old kingdom, merging the meritocracy of the Oathroot scholars with the inherited influence of the noble houses. One’s skill could open doors, but so could money and connections. That combination ensured even the smallest slight could ripple outward in unexpected ways.
Euri had insisted, almost ordered, that Arkwyn and his executive office remain until the very last event concluded. Kion’s attendance was mandatory, along with the others', each step carefully observed. And Fenwick, eyes sharp, hand never leaving his wrist, was the enforcer of that subtle control.
Not that Kion couldn’t have slipped away with that restraint, but Fenwick’s grip was a living reminder. Do not vanish, do not act rashly. That was enough to keep the temptation of flight at bay.
The hall gleamed, a constant wave of polished shoes and whispering silk. Kion moved through it like a ghost, observing but not noticed. Drianna Othvarn flitted between guests, followed closely by her lady-in-waiting, Pialisse Corvayne.
Marchioness Othvarn didn’t look well. Too pale, too frail, the kind of fragility that drew polite silence instead of questions. They said it ran in the bloodline, that every Othvarn heir was born with a weak constitution. Some claimed it had been that way since before the fall of the old kingdom, others whispered it was a curse born after. Whatever the truth, it explained her frequent absences, the long retreats from court, and why her lady-in-waiting never once left her side.
Her smiles, however, remained constant, “thank you for attending this event for my late mother,” repeated with meticulous charm.
One could forgive anyone for thinking her attention spread evenly across all faces. Kion, an unnoticed shadow among the crowd, didn’t expect recognition.
She had too many hands to shake, too many eyes to meet. He had no right to claim a corner of her focus. Not that he wanted to.
Still, he endured. The mask he wore, a careful weaving of illusion magic across his features, smiled politely. Not once faltering, even as his gut churned with worry.
The human shape of him grinned, an echo of social expectation, while inside, his mind lurched with unease. Every polite nod and curt bow was a strain, every shallow laugh a reminder that Writ was not here, that she was out there, thinking, spiraling, surviving.
Dinner approached slowly, as it always did with nobles. Each course, each toast, each drawn-out conversation with insignificant yet high-status individuals stretched the evening further than necessary.
Kion counted the moments, each toll of the bell easing him a fraction, though the worry never loosened. The dread clung, the paranoia stayed sharp.
He managed the act until the ninth bell rang. Then the tether shifted.
Pain threading through his ribs, followed by a tangled surge of fear and disappointment that hollowed him from the inside.
A quiet hope flickered after, softening the wave, though the bitter aftertaste clung just as strong.
Fenwick asked if he was all right. Veska urged him to hold on a little longer, her voice slipping into a hushed lecture about goals and attachment. He listened without listening, her words washing past.
Finally, the carriage doors closed behind Arkwyn and his staff. With polite curtseys and whispered farewells, they departed, leaving the glittering hall behind.
Kion let out the faintest breath, relief too fragile to name. He shifted into his fairy form, wings giving a quiet flutter.
A glance back caught Veska rolling her eyes and muttering under her breath, while Fenwick’s laugh broke through, warm and steady. Enough to ground him despite the tension still coiled in his chest.
Kion soared into the air, leaving the human pretenses behind, but the shadow of worry for Writ followed him like a weightless chain.
Even in flight, his mind traced her path, imagined the corners she hid in, the quiet moments where fear and paranoia gnawed at her.
He hoped he wasn’t too late.
The tether had already dimmed into her quiet focus, a muted hum rather than a sharp cry. She had managed to distract herself, to bury the darker thoughts beneath some other task.
That was good. Necessary.
But it didn’t ease him. If anything, it made the unease worse.
Because it blurred the line.
Was it his own worry gnawing at him, or the tether itself feeding him her unrest?
He couldn’t tell anymore.
And that uncertainty sank deeper than fear, hollowing him out with every beat of his wings.
The Silent Writ
Room 203, Binding Post Inn, Brandholt City
The ninth bell tolled, low and muffled, as though the sound had been dragged through thick velvet before reaching her room. Each strike lingered too long in her ribs, vibrating against the quiet, counting out her isolation with cruel precision.
She told herself she didn’t hear it.
Outside, the streets had already dimmed into stillness, the last streaks of dusk swallowed by lamplight and smoke. Shadows pressed against her window, the kind that belonged to deep night rather than early evening.
She told herself the sun had only just set, that she wasn’t yet this far into waiting.
Her tart sat half-eaten on the desk. Berries too sweet, sugar cloying on her tongue, the taste turning grainy as though each bite demanded to be forced down. She had bought it with the intention to share, even if she never admitted that to herself.
She told herself she had already shared it, that the other half hadn’t spoiled untouched on the plate.
None of it worked.
She knew.
She knew he had said he had an event.
She knew he had said it would take all day.
She knew he had said he would arrive late.
And yet knowing did nothing against the strain of distance.
Nothing against the way her eyes kept straying upward to the vent above, betraying her discipline.
Nothing against the way Lunlun pressed against her ribs from the inside, aching, leaking thoughts she couldn’t afford.
What if he never came?
What if the one who visited her yesterday was not him at all, but another of their manipulations?
What if his promise, 'you’re stuck with me', was as fragile and fleeting as a shadow on stone? Or even a blade sharpened to hit her deeper?
First, no preparation.
Then, no Kion.
Was this part of the shift?
Another cruel plan of them?
Was she meant to weather this entire storm alone?
She bit the thought down, forced Lunlun back, harder this time. Sealed her behind iron and chains, locked her into a box so tight the pressure burned.
It’s okay.
Focus.
Prepare for tomorrow.
It’s okay.
One step at a time.
No spiral.
No panic.
It’s okay.
Keep it shut.
She’d survived alone before. She could do it again.
Please come back.
No. Stop. Focus.
Don’t leave-
No. Focus.
Read.
Recite.
Rehearse.
Her lips moved, the words a whisper dragged from rote memory.
“State your designation. Detail your actions. Clarify intent.”
Again.
“Designation. Actions. Intent.”
Again.
“Designation. Actions. Intent.”
The rhythm steadied her breath, mechanical, merciless.
The kind of focus that smothered everything else. Fear, ache, hope. Until all that remained was repetition.
“It’s going to be okay,” she whispered between lines, the lie folded into the script.
“It has to be okay.”