Six days.
She didn’t sleep well, not with the knowing.
Because they never let failure go unpunished. Not when it was her failure. Not when she moved without a tracker. Not when they’d already clipped a collar on her neck.
She had expected a knock. A surge from the doorwatch glyph jolting her awake. Gloves reaching in, faceless. A quiet order, back to the underbranch chambers. Maybe even the old Nexus cell. Quiet and final.
She’d hoped it would just be lashing. Twelve, maybe twenty. She’d count them. Grit her teeth and call it mercy.
Or the collar, maybe, activated long enough to leave her body wrung and twitching for days. That was manageable.
Just not the box. Not again. Not the black box where light didn’t reach and time didn’t pass. Not the silent rooms with walls too close, air too still.
She’d been trapped too many times this year. In memory loops, in Relay Nine’s punishment, in the ruin trap’s suffocating web. Each one had chipped away at her mind.
Enough was enough. She couldn’t handle that again. Not even for an hour.
They’d done it to her before. Carefully, neatly. As part of her 'correction' when her return to the field went... less than smooth. She’d panicked, made herself tremble too much and failed. The response had been immediate. Surgical. Brutal.
But not this time.
Dryfen had been uneventful. Just another week of eavesdropping in taverns during mealtimes, skimming old field logs, scouring brittle archives and backroom libraries. No threads. No rumors. No fresh leads. Nothing.
She’d charged the collar tonight, like every night before, mana stone aligned to the socket until it gave that single, silent ping. She stared at her report again, the third reread since dusk. It was dull. A flat routine.
Six days in Dryfen. Six days since the failed chase. Since she’d lost the old woman on the Glenwade route, came home dragging shame, and fed it straight to Tiran over the comms.
He didn't give her any punishment or warning at all. He hadn’t even sounded annoyed. Just told her to resume orders in Dryfen. As if nothing happened.
It felt... wrong.
When something was sent to her, there was no ridicule. Or any officer with restraints waiting outside. Or collar-activated paralysis.
Just a knock. And a note on the floor.
Assigned: 071734
Relocate to Glenwade.
That was it.
She flipped the note over. Checked the back. Held it to the light. Even hovered it above flame, just in case. She didn't find any secret ink or code. Just plain paper and dry orders.
She wasn’t punished. Not even scolded. That was new. And it scared her more than anything else.
She let out a long breath. Tapped her pocked. Held the paper still for another minute. Then fed it to the fire. Stirred the ashes into the mug she hadn’t drunk from. Watched the swirl of grey in the glass.
Tiran wasn’t the type to spare anyone out of pity. Least of all her.
He’d done this to her before. Measured lashes. Collar-triggering. Even dragging her by the arm to the black box while she screamed and begged and swore she’d do better.
Because that was the job. And she was just another shadow that needed correction. That was the kind of man he was. Efficient. Cold. Never personal.
So why not this time?
There had to be a reason.
She tapped the coin pouch. Then tried to recall the relay call. Played it in her mind like it was a puzzle she’d missed a piece of. Again and again, down to the breaths.
He never doubted her. Not once. When she asked to pursue. When she broke the planned path. Not even when she said she’d lost the target.
Then came that line.
“They don’t linger.”
Writ’s fingers tightened around the cup.
They.
Not she.
They.
So he’d known.
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He’d known before she even saw the black glitter trail. Before she called in. Maybe before she even left Dryfen.
They’d encountered this before. Maybe a dozen times. Maybe more.
That was why she’d been sent. Not to succeed, but to try again. To document another failure. To track something Accord had been chasing and never catching.
And that was why she wasn’t punished. Probably. Because her loss wasn’t a surprise. Because Accord had already failed. That alone made her chest twist.
She should’ve known sooner.
Every assignment these last weeks, every order to dig into old shelters, to track covered ruins, to scour forgotten paths, it was always about finding something not in the records. Something old. Something buried.
The old woman had gone to Axis Two. Left something behind. Maybe closed something. Was that connected? Was Writ sent to dig up what they tried to bury?
She had no answers. Only fragments and a head full of dead ends. No idea who the old woman really was. No idea what her words meant. No idea what any of it meant. And it frustrated her.
She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to the desk’s edge, eyes shut, breath slow. Sometimes she wished Tiran would just tell her the shape of the damn puzzle. Just once. A sliver of the full picture. Something.
But she knew better. She was just a shadow. Just one among many. No name, no legacy. Disposable when broken. She’d known that since the first time they gave her a blade and let her bleed in Treshfold.
It would never change.
They still saw her as useful. That was the only reason the collar stayed on instead of a blade through her spine. But she didn’t know how long that would last.
The old woman’s voice echoed in her head again. Calm, even kind.
“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.”
Writ squeezed her eyes shut.
She hated that it might never happen. She hated that the leash would probably outlive her. It always did. And worst of all, she knew that.
She knew.
She wished she could say it aloud. Not to Tiran. Not to the Accord. To her. To the old woman.
So she wouldn’t speak like that again. Wouldn’t sow hope into shadows who’d already twisted themselves hollow just to survive.
She wished she could tell her. She wished she could hear what she’d say in return.
Would she offer the same thing Kion once did? That quiet invitation to run, to vanish, to bury her leash in some shallow grave and disappear? Would she offer refuge? The way she’d erased her own trail so perfectly?
Maybe that was why she always slipped away. Always just out of reach, always making sure Writ wasn’t fast enough. That no one chasing her ever would be.
Maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe it was an offer.
Why did the old woman remind her of Kion? Feel like him? Someone who appeared out of nowhere, cared too much, and broke things open just by standing there?
She wished she could say, with certainty, that she wanted to follow.
Follow the old woman. Follow Kion.
But Writ...
Writ wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure she ever would be.
Especially with the Accord haunting every path, threatening a fate worse than death if she was caught again.
And gods, she wished she could.
She wished...
Oh, how she wished.
Arkwyn’s POV
High Councilor’s Office, East Wing, Kesherra Basin
The faint aroma of herb-laced broth still lingered in the air, clinging to the warm wood and stone of Arkwyn’s modest office. Sunlight filtered through the high windowpanes, catching the rim of a half-drunk cup of tea near his elbow. Its surface shimmered faintly. Cooled, but not forgotten.
Across the desk, Euri pushed aside his empty bowl with a satisfied grunt and reached beneath the carved lip of the desk. A quiet click accompanied the motion, revealing a hidden drawer from which he drew a stack of worn paper, tied neatly with twine.
Arkwyn tilted his head, one brow arching in dry amusement, “do Sparklefish and Glow Orb run away again?”
Euri didn’t bother denying it. He exhaled sharply through his nose and scratched the back of his head, shoulders slumping.
"You guessed. They insist, if we need to close the compromised route, they’re the only ones capable of doing it.”
He glanced down at the paper stack with a small shake of his head, “not like we can hold them here with the amount of magic they have.”
Arkwyn’s lips twitched in a half-smile, “not even I can handle those two. They truly are grandmother and granddaughter.”
Euri grunted again, though this time it was laced with something closer to affection.
“The parents are logically grounded people. I wonder how the little one got her stubbornness instead,” he leaned back in his chair and sighed.
“Her parents’ll scold me straight into the afterlife if either of them ends up there too soon.”
Arkwyn chuckled, the sound quiet but sincere. He raised his cup, took a small sip, then set it down again without comment, “at least you managed to convince them to bring teleport-return glyphstones.” He paused, mouth quirking, “they totally think those are cheating. And too expensive.”
Euri jabbed a finger at him, “it is expensive. Hope they won’t need to use it. Ever.”
“Any info about their movement?” Arkwyn asked after a beat, watching as Euri untied the twine and skimmed through the papers.
“No report yet. Just leafy messages since the little one’s arrival four months ago,” he tapped a note with his finger.
“Sparklefish has closed Keskra, Line A-4, Lurne Hollow, and the Graveyard.”
Flip.
“Glow Orb closed Axis One and Two. Said she's still alive and enjoyed the whole trip.”
A soft smile touched Arkwyn’s face, faint and fleeting.
“It’s been a while since Glow Orb last traveled. I imagine she’ll take her time to chat and enjoy the view.”
“She surely will,” Euri said, though his voice carried a note of concern.
“I just hope she remembers she’s not as young anymore. Her magic’s sharper, but her body’s not.”
“She’s not as reckless either,” Arkwyn replied gently.
“She’ll know when to retreat. Both of them will.”
“Hope so.”
A comfortable quiet settled between them. No rush, just the soft rustle of paper and the faint clink of ceramic as Arkwyn nudged his teacup aside.
Outside, someone’s muffled voice drifted down the hallway. The world carried on.
After a moment, Arkwyn broke the stillness.
“How about the flower?”
Euri’s fingers slowed their movement over the documents.
“Glow Orb and Starweft reached out to their contact,” he said at last.
“No one’s willing to touch that flower. Not with what it promised.”
Arkwyn nodded once, eyes briefly distant.
“Figured. My contacts don’t want anything to do with it either.”
“At least three of us are high-risk for the Blight,” Euri muttered, the words almost too low to hear.
“Wish we could get our hands on the cure, just in case.”
Arkwyn’s reply was calm, but firm.
“Not by forcing anyone who isn’t willing. For their safety, and ours.”
“Right.”
The clock ticked twice. Euri shuffled the final page into place, then secured the stack with a loose ribbon. Arkwyn stood, stretching his arms slightly with a quiet breath.
“Alright,” he said.
“Back to work. No more Glitterstorm talk. Unless you’d rather I slack away again.”
Euri looked up at him with mock horror.
“No, please don’t. Else I’ll have to ask Veska to shackle you here.”
Arkwyn’s laugh echoed lightly through the room, warm and unguarded.
Then, together, they returned to the quiet rhythm of their work.