The door clicked open without resistance.

  She stepped into the room and closed it softly behind her. Didn’t move further right away. Just stood by the doorwatch glyph, letting her eyes adjust.

  Everything untouched. The ward still intact.

  Good. At least in here, she was safe.

  Even if the high-council decided to act, even if he reached for her, he would think twice before breaching Accord ground. This inn might sit in Brandholt, but within its walls the rules belonged to the Accord.

  The bed looked the same, sheets hardly creased. The wardrobe still half-empty. Her desk bore its quiet evidence. A stack of papers, blank beneath the one page that carried her name in hurried ink.

  And beside them, the pillow she hadn’t moved since morning.

  A reminder. Proof that Kion had been there. That someone had sat with her, kept watch, refused to let her slip into silence.

  A small warmth stirred under her ribs.

  Dangerous, she knew.

  Because warmth could be twisted. Used.

  But she also knew... without him yesterday, she wouldn’t have made it to today. Not whole. Not intact enough to walk through the Accord’s halls again.

  Without his presence, she might’ve still been waiting for the control to set in. Waiting to lose herself. Waiting to wake up as someone else, or not at all.

  She stretched her arms. Rolled her shoulder. Tilted her neck.

  Still sore. Still heavy.

  Still hers.

  The potion didn’t take her.

  Kion’s words had steadied her. The truth had given her something to grip. Even if it hurt.

  Because if she didn’t know about the flower, about the projection, about the Blissbane’s strange, silent reach... she would’ve shattered beneath the veil’s gaze today. Or cracked under Caedern’s deliberate amusement. Or frozen when Caustic entered the room, his name offered like a trinket by Caedern, though he clearly answered to the Veiled instead.

  Tiran... She tried not to think about him.

  Thirteen years. And he still didn’t believe her. Didn’t trust her.

  He was the one who’d sent her to the black box, after all. Hands bruising. Orders cold. Voice tight with duty, not doubt. But the memory left marks all the same.

  She touched her wrist, half-expecting it to sting.

  Then finally moved. Crossed the room and sank onto the floor beside the bed, back resting against its frame. Her body folded slowly, heavily, as if it had just now remembered how tired it was.

  How much it had carried. How close it had come to breaking.

  She pulled her knees close. Rested her cheek on the fabric of her leggings. Closed her eyes.

  Her heartbeat wasn’t calm anymore.

  It was waiting. Expecting.

  Would he come tonight?

  He said he would. Promised, even.

  But when?

  And why did waiting for him feel more unbearable than any of the Accord’s summons?

  She hated this.

  Hated how deeply she’d grown attached. How her heart had started moving differently around him, even outside the ruin. Hated the fear curling in her gut. Not of being abandoned, but of being wrong about him.

  Because if he didn’t come... If he changed his mind, if she’d read him wrong, if he’d simply forgotten... She wouldn’t know how to protect herself from that.

  “Lunlun?”

  She blinked. Lifted her head.

  His voice.

  She turned toward the window.

  “Good evening!” Kion smiled, waving, half-lit by the fading gold outside.

  He came.

  He actually came.

  She should’ve been cautious. Should’ve doubted.

  But gods help her...

  That simple fact made her feel like the luckiest person in the world.

  Kion's POV

  Room 203, Binding Post Inn, Brandholt City

  Kion didn’t know the tether could smile.

  Not just hum with a pulse or flutter faintly like it always did around her, but genuinely smile.

  A feeling so soft it almost tickled.

  He even trembled because of it.

  Writ's face didn’t look much different than usual.

  Her expression, cool as ever, and a little tired. But not beaten. Not like yesterday.

  He could see it.

  She hadn’t broken today.

  Not completely.

  But the tether, the tether, was brighter.

  Not glowing, no.

  But Kion felt it buzz faintly in the edge of his senses, like a breeze brushing against a sun-warmed leaf.

  It felt like it could shine if he grazed it wrong.

  Just a single soft touch too close, too curious, and it would flare with recognition.

  And that would be dangerous.

  Because if it shined here, now, she’d know it was him who had cast it back in Kesherra.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  And that would shatter everything.

  Didn’t mean it didn’t make him happy, though.

  He’d like to pat his past himself on the back.

  Good job, Yesterday-Kion. You suicidal little idiot.

  Sure, leaving Seraithe mid-discussion yesterday had ended with her storming into his office like a wild shadow, knocking over every single document with a flick of rage.

  And yes, Veska and Fenwick had chewed him out for hours about “professional conduct” and “paperwork sanctity.”

  But it was worth it.

  This version of Writ, tired but present, was leagues better than yesterday’s.

  Yesterday’s Writ scared him.

  So much.

  He could still feel it.

  The wrongness in the room. Fading, yes, but not gone.

  Like a mouthless moth clinging to a lampshade, seconds away from dying.

  Nope. Totally not a fan.

  He landed softly in front of her.

  “How do you feel today?” he asked, bright and casual.

  “Fine,” she said, “tired.”

  “That’s expected,” he said, tapping her shin.

  He dropped down into a seated position and unhooked his satchel, setting it on the floor between them, “have you had dinner yet?”

  Writ shook her head.

  “I brought fish stew, if that’s okay with you,” he said, already starting to rummage.

  Then paused.

  Looked up at her, “but if you want something else, we can go out. Or you can stay, and I can go get something you like.”

  She looked at him, puzzled. He felt her confusion, but not resistance.

  Almost like she didn’t know how to respond to someone offering her options.

  Then she finally answered, quiet and simple, “stew is fine.”

  “All righty then!”

  He grinned and produced two clay bowls, one full-sized, the other small enough to suit his stature, each sealed tight beneath a shimmer of telekinesis.

  He set them gently on the ground. When he broke the seal, they expanded with a soft pop, still holding their warmth.

  Writ blinked, no longer surprised.

  Kion took the smaller one, opened the lid, and let the aroma rise.

  Soft, rich, laced with hints of wild parsley and smoked salt.

  He scooped a spoonful and tasted it. Warm. Comforting.

  Just enough spice to be interesting, not enough to startle. The fish was tender, the potato softened just right.

  He sighed, pleased, “It's good. Thank the kitchen witch of Brandholt.”

  Writ picked up her bowl slowly.

  She tested the warmth, then opened the lid. Stirred the stew for a long moment, inspecting. Sniffed.

  Then, finally, a spoonful.

  And she ate.

  He didn’t say anything.

  He didn’t need to.

  The quiet clink of spoon against bowl filled the room. It was a better soundtrack than words.

  She was eating.

  That was all that mattered.

  After a while, he set his spoon down and closed the lid with a satisfied sigh.

  “Ahhh. Delicious.”

  Writ gave a small nod, still working through hers. The tether flickered again.

  Hesitant, almost shy.

  He noticed immediately.

  “Are you okay? I can get you something else if you don’t like it.”

  She shook her head, swallowed, and answered slowly.

  “Just... unfamiliar.”

  He blinked, “you’ve… never had fish stew?”

  “...Not this... thick.”

  The stew was perfectly ordinary. He knew several places that served even richer flavors, heartier contents.

  How was that even...

  “Oh,” he murmured, fidgeting slightly.

  “If you want something more familiar instead, I can get it. Really.”

  She stirred her bowl again, watching the potato slice roll lazily around the broth.

  “It’s okay. I’m not picky.”

  That hit him harder than it should’ve.

  Of course she wasn’t.

  Shadows can’t afford to be picky.

  He remembered the ruin. That night she slipped into the tunnel alone.

  The tether jolted him awake the moment she crossed the threshold.

  He found her kneeling in dust and silence, clutching a single nut as if it were her last hope.

  He yelled at her, she only rolled it between her fingers.

  Later, she ate it as if it were treasure.

  His chest ached.

  He didn’t know what to say to that kind of memory, so he didn’t.

  He just nodded and said gently, “well, all right then. That’s okay. Take your time. I hope you enjoy your first.”

  He stretched his legs forward with a small sigh, “but if you don’t—just tell me. Really. No problem.”

  She gave a faint nod and continued eating slowly.

  “So...” he tried again, voice light, “how’s it going today?”

  “Easier than yesterday.”

  “That’s good to hear. Any effects? Difficulty focusing? Anything odd?”

  “None at all.”

  A pause.

  “But my head feels... lighter.”

  “I see. Good. That’s good.”

  Actually... that was expected.

  She’d braved the full miasma of the Blissbane bloom back in the cave, without a shield.

  Only thanks to her small mana pool did she walk out with her mind merely fogged.

  If he’d tried that? He’d be dead before the second breath.

  One of the many reasons he was still trying to find someone, anyone, to help handle the specimen.

  To make a cure. To make it safe.

  He was grateful the Accord had given her a cure already. At least... he hoped it was a cure.

  He prayed it had been real.

  "So... What did they do today?" he asked, watching her finish the last of the stew.

  "They made me trace everything in the notebook."

  "Ah, and it's accepted?"

  “Didn’t comment on anything. Maybe.”

  “Any other summons soon?”

  “None so far.”

  “Well, that’s... calming? I guess?”

  “Mm.”

  “Do you think you’ll stay long in Brandholt?”

  “No idea. It’s random.”

  “Well,” he offered, smiling again, “I can totally prepare a sightseeing plan if you’re up for it.”

  She looked at him, one eyebrow arching, “and walk with you in broad daylight?”

  A beat.

  “Wouldn’t that draw too much attention?”

  He grinned, “well... I have ways to make myself visible only to people I choose.”

  She blinked.

  “So everyone else would just see you, walking alone.”

  “...Maybe later.”

  “Yup, yup. Surely do. Just rest for now,” he said, voice soft, “I know you’re tired.”

  She didn’t argue.

  She finished her stew, slow and methodical. Kion tapped the bowls back into their compact form, shrank them, and tucked them away in his satchel.

  Then he looked up at her again. His voice quieter, but no less certain.

  “Now that I’ve confirmed you’re okay and still you. Do you... want me to stay?”

  A moment passed.

  Then she answered, “stay.”

  He beamed.

  “All righty then.”

  And he did.

  Kion was halfway through pulling out a folded handkerchief from his satchel when her voice came, quiet, almost a question to herself.

  “...Did your day go well?”

  He looked up.

  The tether rippled again. Small. Shy.

  As if it didn't quite know how to make room for a question like that.

  Her face barely changed, but he caught the shift in her fingers, tracing the creases in the wooden floor once, twice, before letting go.

  His heart actually skipped a beat.

  Because she’d never asked.

  He blinked, then smiled, gentler than he meant to.

  “Oh? I got asked about my day?”

  Writ didn’t rise to the teasing. If anything, she ducked her gaze.

  “Just... thought it’d be fair. You always ask.”

  That caught something in his chest and twisted it, but not painfully. More like... something almost whole, almost healed.

  “Well,” he said, trying to keep it light, “I got told off by three different people, two of which scolded me for making my office look like it got hit by a storm.”

  She blinked, “because you... visited me yesterday?”

  He grinned, “yup. Your doing.”

  Writ made a soft, almost reluctant noise, “...I apo- ...sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Kion said, waving it off, “totally worth it. Would take a hundred paper cuts and their lectures again if it meant you’d actually eat dinner with me tonight.”

  That earned him a blink.

  And then a faint, unguarded flicker at the corner of her mouth.

  Not quite a smile, but a relaxation. Her shoulders eased. The tether calmed.

  Kion tucked the handkerchief back into his bag with a sigh, satisfied.

  “Anyway. Yes. Long day. But this...” he gestured between them, “...is something I enjoy most.”

  Writ didn’t answer. But she didn’t look away, either.

  And maybe that was enough for now.

  Kion spoke in low, unhurried tones, filling the quiet between them with his words.

  He told her about a tailor in Brandholt who kept mistaking him for a courier and insisted he looked too “wind-tousled” for someone who worked indoors.

  About the religious offerings that had been snagged for inspection by overly eager patrols.

  About a street corner that now smelled like burnt vanilla ever since someone tried to enchant a bakery sign with heatproof glyphs and accidentally triggered a smoke rune instead.

  Writ sat with her legs tucked up, blanket pulled around her knees.

  He noticed her tapping the pocket of her trousers again, and again, in the span of a few minutes.

  Just like she’d tapped her notebook back in the ruin.

  She didn’t say much, just a few small “mmm”s, a rare nod, her gaze flickering between him and the window as if she were half-listening, half-drifting.

  But she didn’t look away.

  And she didn’t shut him out.

  So he kept talking. Not to fill the silence, but to let it settle in softer.

  When her head began to tip, slowed by fatigue, Kion stood.

  He lifted her gently onto the bed with his magic and drew a blanket over her.

  Then he tapped off the lamp on the wall and adjusted the latch on the half-open window.

  He didn’t need to ask if she was ready to sleep.

  Her body already curled toward the quiet.

  He crossed the room and sat on the pillow on her desk.

  The one she hadn’t moved since yesterday, a quiet sign she was comfortable with it there.

  “Goodnight, Lunlun.”

  She didn’t answer aloud, but a faint smile touched her lips.

  Kion almost didn’t believe it.

  A smile, here, after all of it.

  He pinched himself, half-expecting the moment to break apart like mist.

  But when he looked again, it was still there. Quiet, unforced, hers.

  Her eyes blinked once, slow and deliberate, then stayed closed.

  The faint curve of her mouth lingered, fragile as a thread of light.

  Kion eased back on his bed-pillow.

  He didn’t dare ask for more, didn’t dare hold it tighter.

  He let the silence wrap around them instead, steady and calm.

  And he let that be enough.

  From here, we’re shifting to 3/week to keep things polished and steady.

  Thanks for running alongside Writ this far.

  WED ? SAT ? SUN at 12:12 PM (GMT+7 | 6:12 AM UK | 1:12 AM US Eastern).