Hours had passed, yet the notebook still lay open before her, its pages gaping wide beside a fresh stack of transparent sheets waiting to be traced.

  The last page clicked into place under her palm with a faint rustle.

  The quiet weight of Caedern’s gaze never wavered, and she didn’t dare glance up to confirm it.

  He hadn't said a word since she started tracing, and for that, she was silently grateful.

  Her hand ached. Her shoulder, worse. The curve of her spine felt like it had bent into the table itself, molded to the Accord's rhythm.

  There were small comforts in repetition, but nothing could erase the feeling of being watched like a creature that wasn't supposed to exist.

  She exhaled through her nose and sat straighter, “last page’s done.”

  Caedern didn’t move at first. Then the smooth flick of his hand toward the tablet, calling the others.

  There was no praise. No nod. Just a flicker of something on his face, gone too fast to read. Something that looked like ...disappointment?

  She kept her eyes on the edge of the table, counting the dents.

  Tiran arrived before she could reach ten.

  He said nothing to her. Just picked up the first page, then the next. Each one passed from his fingers to Caedern’s and back again. No discussion. No visible signal. Only paper, ink, and silence.

  A short knock preceded the last arrival.

  The Quill man stepped into the room with a crisp nod, eyes flicking to her briefly, then settling on the stack of papers.

  “The Black Quill is engaged elsewhere,” he said, voice flat, “she delegated me to witness.”

  Caedern made a soft sound, something between a hum and a scoff.

  “So it’s you then, Caustic Ink,” he said, deliberately, and Writ caught the twitch in Tiran’s jaw.

  The name hung in the air, not quite sanctioned.

  She didn’t react. Didn’t lift her head. But a new discomfort bloomed low in her stomach.

  Was that name meant for her? A reward? A threat? A trick?

  She didn’t want to know. She just wanted to be done.

  Tiran moved to the last page. He skimmed. Wrote something in the margin. The nib of his pen scratched softly, a sound she felt down to her nerves. Again. Again. Page by page.

  She didn’t ask why. He wouldn’t answer.

  Caedern, too, wrote something down on the copy in his hand, muttering quietly to Caustic, too low for her to catch. Caustic replied once. She caught only the tail of it, “clean work.”

  Her hand curled into a light fist.

  Finally, Tiran straightened. He didn’t speak to the others. Just turned toward her with that unreadable face of his, neither warmth nor cold, only function.

  “You’re dismissed.”

  Two words, and the air shifted. The room didn't feel oppressive anymore, just empty.

  Writ rose with the careful grace of someone remembering her body again. Her legs felt stiff. Her fingers tingled. But her heart... her heart was steady.

  She nodded once, not daring more, and left without waiting to be dismissed again.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Outside, the world was gold.

  The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows that draped over stone and clay like folded robes.

  The wind was quiet but present, brushing past her cheek with the faint warmth of a day just beginning to cool. It carried the scent of dust and baked roots, of things freshly unwrapped and others long decayed.

  It was perhaps halfway to the sixth bell, judging by the sky, and the people.

  Buildings around her emptied in murmuring waves. Officials, field aides, minor division workers.

  Some slipped into the crowd quickly, heads down and mouths shut. Others lingered outside the gates, sharing updates or gossip with voices loud enough to prove they mattered.

  The tension of duty had slipped from most shoulders, replaced with fatigue or chatter or both.

  A cart rattled past with a lopsided wheel. A child laughed as they chased a rolling seedpod. From a stall across the street, someone called out half-hearted offers for skewered roots and broth-bread.

  The main road ahead was a vein of motion, thick with bodies drifting homeward or elsewhere. The city felt alive in a way it didn’t from behind Shadow Accord's walls, people stretching into their own lives, loud and imperfect.

  She walked alone.

  Not far. The inn was barely a five-minute path down the side street. But even so, it felt like crossing a border.

  Like moving from a world of clipped questions and cold regard into one where gazes didn’t dissect her with surgical detachment. Where each step didn’t echo like a countdown.

  The wind shifted and stirred her sleeves. Her fingers curled, resisting the itch to rub her wrist again.

  She didn’t rush. Let the crowd fold around her like a current around stone. Let them pass, brushing close but never touching. Her hand rested lightly at her side, where the ache in her joints could pulse in peace.

  Then her fingers slipped into the pocket, meeting the cool clink of coins within the pouch.

  The soreness hadn’t faded. Her knuckles still remembered impact. Her spine still stiff from too-long silence and too-straight chairs. But her heartbeat... steady now. Quiet. Present.

  The collar still hummed faintly against her neck, a weight that never lifted. Its presence made the air outside no less dangerous.

  Somewhere in these same streets, the Bronze man lingered. Golden thread ready to tighten. If he chose to reach for her, he could do it faster than any guard ever could.

  So no, this wasn’t safety. Not truly. Just another stretch of road where danger looked different.

  She didn’t smile. Didn’t sigh. Just let her steps carry her forward, steady and small.

  And yet, the band across her ribs loosened, just slightly, as the sky bled orange and her shadow stretched behind her instead of over her.

  She had passed. She had survived.

  But she hadn’t left it behind.

  Not really.

  She carried it with her still. What had happened, what had been said. But the edges felt duller now. Not gone. Just... less jagged.

  But it felt... easier today.

  Not easy. Just easier.

  Maybe because this time, she already knew why she’d been called.

  There was no illusion to hold on to, no hallway dread pretending otherwise. No voice in her head whispering maybe it’s not that bad this time.

  Or maybe because Kion had finally told her. About the Blissbane. The flower. The reason they thought she was seeing something different in the notebook, and why they kept looking at her as if something inside her had grown teeth.

  Either way, she wasn’t walking in blind anymore.

  Or maybe... Maybe she was just too worn thin from the game.

  From their shifting tones and watchful silence. From Caedern’s prodding, Tiran’s weighing looks, The Veiled’s sighs behind her own eyes. From pretending not to notice every test disguised as concern.

  First, the difference in the notebook. Then the accusations. Of Blissbane, of corruption, of being something she didn’t even understand. And then... the potion. That mind-control potion. Given with a smile and a lie. A lie she drank, anyway.

  Because I needed them to believe me.

  Because I needed to survive.

  Or maybe it was something else.

  Maybe it was the quiet knowledge that... someone would check for her. Even after all this.

  Someone who came without her calling. Someone who always came.

  Someone who could somehow look at her like she wasn’t broken glass, and still knew not to touch her too hard. Who gave her space without walking away. Who lifted her gently without making it feel like she owed him the rise.

  No commands. No threats. No illusion of choice wrapped in kind-sounding chains.

  Just presence. Just being there.

  And gods, she hoped it wasn’t a long con. A kindness built only to lull her before the drop.

  One more test. One more trap. One more final push to shatter her cleanly.

  But even if it was... if all of that had been another duty, meant to get close, meant to earn trust, meant to break her better...

  Then so be it.

  Let them break her, at least after she’d tasted warmth. After she knew, however briefly, what it was to steady beneath someone’s presence without flinching.

  If she had to fall, let her fall from that height.

  The silence swallowed the echo of his words, the ache in her ribs sharp as if she’d already fallen too far.

  Her hand found the pouch in her pocket, thumb tracing the ridges of Kion’s coin. It bit into her skin, leaving a mark she could almost believe in.

  A small, stubborn reminder that something he’d given was still hers to keep. Something to hold her, even if only by a thread, against the height she was falling from.

  Not enough to stop the fall. But enough to remind her she hadn’t hit the ground yet.

  It would be enough.

  It had to be enough.

  ...She hated that it should always have to be enough.