Writ stirred awake just as the first light touched the window. Dawn, soft and slow.

  She blinked into the dimness, unsure what had pulled her from sleep. Then sat up, pushing herself to the edge of the bed with a cautious breath.

  How long had she slept?

  Longer than usual. That was certain. Her body felt too loose, her mind still struggling to find shape.

  She pushed aside a blanket she didn't remember taking. One she hadn’t needed when she slept. Someone had covered her.

  A blink. Another. The blur in her eyes settled.

  That was when she noticed the desk.

  And the pillow placed neatly atop it.

  And Kion, curled up on the pillow. Tiny, silent, asleep.

  Her breath hitched.

  It’s real.

  He had come. He had stayed. Not an illusion. Not a conjured memory.

  Her fingers trembled. She turned them over, studying her palms in the grey-blue morning light. Then flexed them slowly.

  Still hers. Still under her control.

  Still Writ.

  “You're awake? Good morning!”

  She turned, startled.

  Kion was already up. Sitting on his pillow, tousled and beaming as if he'd been waiting for her to open her eyes.

  Writ gave a small nod.

  “How do you feel? Anything weird?”

  She tested her body again. Rotated her shoulders, tilted her head side to side, let her limbs speak before her voice did.

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Good to hear that!” Kion’s grin widened, “tell me if you feel anything weird, okay?”

  She nodded again, slower.

  “Early breakfast? Soup? Porridge?”

  Her gaze flicked over him, then around the room.

  No sign of his magical satchel. No clue where he’d get any of that.

  “You came here yesterday with soup and porridge?” she asked, half-suspicious.

  Kion chuckled, “naah. I’ll fetch that from the tavern downstairs, of course. They’re open twenty-four hours.”

  She blinked at him, “you’ll float it all the way here while... flying? Won’t that... attract too much attention?”

  “Pfft. Noo. Not that way,” he said, flicking a hand, “mine’s subtler. More human. Flying downstairs and levitating a tray of breakfast would land us on the front page, wouldn’t it? Neither of us wants that.”

  Writ’s eyes narrowed in faint amusement. She nodded.

  “So?” Kion floated a little closer, hovering midair in front of her, “breakfast?”

  “Broth,” she murmured.

  “Right away!”

  He zipped through the overhead ventilation above the door, slipping out with ease.

  She stared at the now-empty room for a moment longer, then stood and padded toward the bathroom.

  Her limbs moved automatically, like her body had made the decision before her mind caught up.

  The cold water helped. She splashed her face, then lingered in front of the mirror, fingers pressed to the porcelain sink.

  The mirror gave nothing back but her own reflection. She held it, searching, as if the longer she looked the more it might betray some hidden fracture, some sliver of truth.

  “Writ,” she murmured to her reflection, “The Silent Writ.”

  Her hand rose, hesitated, then touched her collar. A reflex. She hadn’t recharged it since yesterday.

  She turned away and walked to the door.

  Two steps, then she stopped.

  Almost unwillingly, her feet carried her back, two slow steps in reverse, until the mirror slid into her peripheral again. She didn’t face it this time, only let her gaze drag sideways, caught by her own shape in the glass.

  She stared longer now, as if something might still be waiting behind the surface.

  “Lunlun,” she whispered. Quiet. Uncertain.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  She gave the faintest nod.

  Then walked away from the sink.

  Still herself.

  The door creaked softly as she returned to the room.

  Kion wasn’t back yet.

  She sat at the desk, rummaged through her satchel, found a mana stone, and tapped it against her collar.

  It hummed quietly in her fingers.

  Then...

  Knock knock.

  “Lunlun? Can you open the door? It’s locked.”

  She rose, crossed the room, and turned the lock.

  Kion hovered just outside the door. Beside him, a tray floated in place, steady, unmoving, carrying a bowl of steaming broth, a glass of water, and a small teacup.

  “You said you’re not going to float it.”

  “I didn’t,” Kion said cheerfully, “not downstairs. I only levitated it once I made sure nobody was looking.”

  He zipped past her and set the tray carefully on the desk. Then he landed beside it, wings folding as he sat. She turned and quietly locked the door behind him.

  She sank into the chair, slower this time, and resumed tapping the mana stone to her collar. Kion watched her without speaking.

  Ping.

  The light dimmed. She set the stone back in her satchel, then glanced at the tray.

  “Which one’s mine?”

  “Whichever you want.”

  She eyed the tray, calculating. Then nudged the teacup closer to him, “tea’s yours.”

  “Roger that,” Kion sat cross-legged and levitated the cup to him with a flick of magic.

  She took the broth.

  Sipped.

  Warmth slid down her throat, spreading through her chest. Like something long forgotten, quietly returning.

  Across from her, Kion tipped his cup midair and drank, humming in exaggerated delight.

  “You didn’t trigger the ward I set.”

  Kion kept his gaze on the tea, “I have my ways.”

  She circled her hand over the bowl. The broth swirled lazily. Her eyes never left him.

  “You answered my question about Blissbane.”

  “I did.”

  “You hadn’t,” she corrected. Quiet, but firm, “not in the cave.”

  “You didn’t need to know. Not then,” he looked up at her, serious now, “but now that you’ve brushed against it... It’s better to be informed than walking in blind.”

  He sipped again, more softly this time.

  “Would be better if they don’t know you know, though. It’s not common knowledge. If they ask where you learned it...” he left the sentence dangling.

  Writ nodded once.

  They finished breakfast in a hush. She placed the empty bowl back onto the tray. Her fingers lingered on the rim, mind ticking.

  “How did you know?”

  Kion raised a brow, “about what?”

  “When to come.”

  He smiled, almost smug, “I just knew.”

  She stared at him. That wasn’t an answer.

  It was his answer. The kind that meant he wouldn’t elaborate.

  “Stationed in Brandholt?” she asked.

  “Sort of.”

  “Which division?”

  He gave her a lopsided grin, “not answering that.”

  Silence. He sipped his tea like it was the most important task in the world.

  “Why insist I run?” she asked.

  Kion stared at her then, longer than before.

  Then shrugged, “seemed like you needed it.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Really?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He finished his tea with a final gulp, then set the cup down gently.

  “Well. I can’t make you run,” his tone softened, “but the offer stands. Always.”

  Writ blinked.

  A choice. Not forced. Not pressured. Not the illusion of one.

  “...Why?”

  Kion’s eyes sparkled as he repeated, “because you seem like you need it.”

  Again.

  The word caught in her chest. It pressed on something she couldn’t quite name.

  She exhaled slowly, a sound closer to surrender than agreement. Her gaze slid away, but she didn’t push him back, didn’t argue. For once, she let the silence stand between them, fragile and unbroken.

  Kion shifted slightly, leaning just enough that she knew he was still watching her.

  “My turn,” Kion said, “do you feel anything weird?”

  She flexed her fingers again, tapped her pockets, moved her legs.

  “Nothing feels different.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She rose and stretched, testing her body’s memory. It responded. So did something subtler, the trace of borrowed calm still nestled behind her ribs.

  Her mind felt... lighter.

  For months now, ever since the cave, there’d been a quiet weight pressing inward. A heaviness she’d grown used to, so constant it had become part of her baseline.

  Now, with it gone, the absence felt like silence where noise should be. Not unpleasant, just strange. A little eerie. As if something had slipped free without telling her.

  “One week?” she asked.

  “Yep. If they don’t give you a second dose in a week, it’ll clear from your system. Even if it was laced with control threads, they’ll decay.”

  She nodded.

  “Well... actually,” Kion added, “if you feel lighter than usual, like your brain’s less foggy... that’s probably already a sign it’s the real cure.”

  Her fingers paused mid-stretch.

  Lighter. Less foggy.

  The words landed softly, but they echoed. Matched.

  She thought of the strange clarity in her head just now, like a window had opened after being sealed shut for too long. It did line up with what he said. But...

  It was the Accord who had given her the vial. And they’d claimed it was laced with a potion designed to control her, remotely.

  And whatever their reasons, she couldn’t take the shift in her body as proof. Not yet.

  “We’ll see in a week,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

  Kion nodded.

  A silence passed. Not heavy. Just thoughtful.

  Then he asked, “What time’s your summon?”

  “Thirteen hundred.”

  Kion made a face, “Ah... After lunch. Mmm...”

  She raised a brow, “why?”

  “Well, I technically have to be in the office during work hours. And since I bailed abruptly yesterday... I should probably show up early today, as atonement.”

  She blinked, wondering what the problem was.

  “Then go.”

  “You sure?” he asked, hovering a little higher, “will you be okay? You won’t... fade away again like last night?”

  Writ didn’t answer.

  “Promise me you’ll call if anything feels off?”

  She tilted her head.

  “Please?”

  She nodded.

  Kion beamed and did a small loop around her, “you promised! No breaking it!”

  He landed lightly on the windowsill, fingers already brushing the latch.

  “Do you want me to visit again tonight?” he asked.

  She hesitated.

  She didn’t know if they’d let her go again. Nothing was ever certain.

  Still, she nodded.

  Kion’s grin widened, then softened into something gentler, almost tender.

  He pushed the window open. Outside, the sky was blooming with gold and peach, the first sunrays spilling across the sill.

  He turned back to her, “are you sure you’re okay? I can stay a little longer.”

  “You’ll be late.”

  “I don’t mind being late.”

  She huffed a quiet breath, half-amused, “no. Go.”

  He smiled and stepped toward the edge of the window.

  “See you later, then,” he said, flicking his fingers in a lazy wave, “I hope today treats you kindly.”

  And then he was gone, just like that, rising into the morning light, his silhouette shrinking to a dot against the sky.

  Writ lifted a hand in a faint wave and watched until he disappeared.

  The breeze lingered in his wake, brushing her cheek like a breath that hadn’t quite left.

  Then she closed her eyes. Inhaled, slow and deep.

  Keeping the warmth he’d left behind in her ribs, like coals wrapped in cloth.

  She still had no idea how he always found her at her worst. When she cracked. When she faltered. When everything around her blurred into something too wide, too deep.

  But she was glad it was him.

  They’d probably try to break her again today. Try to pry into the hollows of her defenses.

  But now she knew... he’d come back tonight.

  She hadn’t realized having someone waiting could feel like this.

  So grounding. So steady.

  A small, stubborn wish bloomed beneath the surface of her armor.

  Maybe...

  Just maybe...

  If he kept coming back...

  Then maybe the Silent Writ and Lunlun could coexist after all.