Kion's POV

  Room 203, Binding Post Inn, Brandholt City

  Writ was still in the bathroom when he slipped through the window vent.

  Warm, damp air clung faintly to the walls, steam curling toward the ceiling before vanishing.

  He perched on the sill, legs drawn up, wings folded tight. Watching the closed door. Waiting.

  More than a week had passed since that first night, the night he’d felt her dimming, as if someone had drawn a curtain across her light.

  He’d dropped everything, followed the tether until he found her.

  That was when he’d told her what he wanted to believe.

  That the wait would be only seven days.

  That whatever mind-binding poison had been hidden in that drink, it would fade by then.

  She’d told him they hadn’t given her another dose.

  Not the next morning.

  Not on any of the days since, days spent shut inside, slipping out only to the tavern below.

  The only time she’d gone past the building’s walls was to restock her mana stone, so the collar would hold its charge.

  A necessity, not freedom.

  She’d wrapped herself in stones.

  He suspected it was the collar.

  Its pulse was faint, like a pebble dropped into still water, sending ripples only someone listening closely could catch.

  Just like the banishment mark burned into his own skin.

  Most humans wouldn’t sense it.

  Not without magic in their blood, not without training.

  Lurean, maybe. In this city, only Lurean.

  If the Accord had someone of his caliber, they wouldn’t have risked tagging a Shadow this openly. They wouldn’t be this loud about it.

  He didn’t know what else the collar could do.

  Magic engineering wasn’t his strength, especially human-made.

  He didn’t try to figure it out.

  What he was trying to figure out... was how to coax her out of here.

  A walk. A meal somewhere else.

  Something beyond the square of floor between bed and desk.

  Because this room was her cell.

  The only place she felt safe.

  Beyond the threshold was nothing but threat.

  She’d never said it aloud.

  The tether told him.

  It sat curled in on itself during the day, muffled by hours of silence.

  The one time she’d stepped past the walls, to a magic store, the tether had spiked in a different way.

  High-strung, thrumming with dread, like the streets of Brandholt were pressing in on her from every side.

  And when he came, it flared so sharply it nearly suffocated him with relief.

  By now, he’d half moved in. His own room in Kesherra was just a space gathering dust.

  He’d brought two pillows. A tiny one for himself and a larger, human-sized one to use as a bed.

  She never touched them.

  Not even when he left them out in the open.

  Like last night.

  He’d slept on the desk, the larger pillow taking up most of the space.

  This morning, he’d left in a rush, distracted by the slow, methodical way she’d eaten her sandwich, forgetting to tuck the pillows away.

  Now, back from work, the pillows were exactly where he’d left them.

  She’d only shifted her chair slightly, leaving herself a narrow strip of desk for her papers.

  He didn’t understand it. Didn’t try to.

  The door creaked open. Steam drifted out.

  She stepped through, towel pressed to her hair, rubbing at it with slow, heavy movements.

  He flicked his fingers, smiling.

  “Good evening, Lunlun.”

  A nod.

  Her expression didn’t change, but warmth seeped through the tether.

  Steady, quiet, certain.

  Not the sudden, blazing rush from the night he’d learned the tether could smile, but still enough to pull his own smile wider without thinking.

  “Do you know what day it is today?”

  The tether pulsed once in recognition. She tilted her head.

  He sighed, amused.

  “More than a week,” he said, lifting his hands as if declaring a victory, “no second dose. You’re still you. That calls for celebration.”

  Writ blinked. The tether stirred.

  A ripple, not a wave, but still full of life.

  From his satchel, he drew a small box, holding it aloft until it unfolded to full size.

  He moved his pillow from the desk to the bed, setting the box in its place.

  He crossed the room and opened it, letting her see the cake inside.

  “Not too sweet,” he told her, “I thought you might like this. But if you don’t, that’s fine. Don’t force yourself.”

  She came closer, tapping her pocket once, eyes fixed on the cake.

  He pulled utensils from his satchel.

  Cut a thin slice. Slid it onto a small plate.

  Offered it, fork and all.

  “Just one bite,” he said, “if it’s awful, put it down. I won’t mind.”

  She studied him for a long moment. He met her gaze, smile steady.

  Finally, she cut a small piece.

  Brought it to her mouth.

  Slow chewing at first.

  Then a shift. A barely-there softening in her face.

  The second bite was larger.

  “It’s good, right?”

  She nodded.

  Relief, bright and giddy, surged through him.

  He kept it in check.

  Instead, he cut a slice for himself, set the knife aside.

  “Have as much as you want.”

  Another nod.

  They ate in silence, the soft scrape of forks the only sound. Every so often, the tether brushed against him.

  Light, warm, making the cake taste sweeter than it had any right to be.

  She almost finished half the cake on her own.

  That alone was a miracle.

  Kion leaned back in the air, fork idly tapping his plate, and just watched her chew.

  The girl who once struggled with a single cookie he had brought into the ruins was now demolishing several slices of layered cream and sponge.

  He felt oddly proud, though he had no idea what he’d done to deserve credit.

  Well... back pat for you, Kion.

  He cleared his throat, fork lazily pointing at the plate between them.

  “We should go to the café that sells this. The Melt and Mug. They’re not too crowded right when they open. Lots of other food and desserts you might like.”

  Her head snapped up.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Writ’s stare pinned him as if he’d just suggested she eat caterpillars.

  “Doesn’t have to be tomorrow,” he added quickly, trying not to laugh at her expression.

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  The intensity of her glare softened, barely.

  Then she gave the faintest of nods.

  A small step forward. Another good job, Kion.

  But that wasn’t the real issue, was it?

  Cake was fine, nods were fine.

  The problem was that she still refused to step outside, clinging to this tiny rented room as if the air beyond its door might swallow her whole.

  He needed to know why.

  He needed her to talk.

  So, between mouthfuls of his own slice, he slid the question in casually.

  “Did they forbid you to leave the room? You went to buy the mana stone just fine.”

  Her fork stilled midair.

  She set it down on the plate and held the plate with her right hand.

  Her left hand went instinctively to her collar as it pulsed faintly, then tapped her pocket.

  She let it fall back to her lap and shook her head.

  “They didn’t mention anything,” she murmured.

  Kion squinted, licking the last crumbs from his fork.

  “Why don’t you go out, then?”

  Silence.

  He swallowed the final bite and pressed a little harder.

  “Afraid the mind control would flare up if you were in a crowd?”

  Another headshake.

  The tether between them shivered.

  Not with agreement, not with denial, but with something else entirely.

  Fear. Not of the question. Fear of him.

  Kion’s fork clinked against his empty plate.

  She toyed with the crumbs left on hers, her gaze locked on them as if they might rearrange into an answer.

  “I’m sorry if I’m pushing,” he said softly.

  He stacked his plate beside him, then rose and hovered to the edge of the table, closer to her.

  “But I really wish you’d tell me.”

  She remained stiff, unmoving, refusing to speak, as he expected.

  Then... let’s see.

  The tether had carried her calm, her acceptance, her routine through the week.

  But what if he shook it... just a little? Just enough to unsettle her?

  He leaned closer, voice dropping to a careful murmur.

  “If you don’t want to answer... well, there’s nothing I can do. I know this whole arrangement is probably one-sided. Maybe... maybe actually you’d rather I wasn’t here at all.”

  The tether flared sharply, thrumming against him like a warning bell. She didn’t move.

  Still, he stayed.

  Close enough to feel it, patient enough to wait for the tiniest sign she might respond.

  Kion half-turned, levitating his cutlery and tapping it toward his satchel to shrink it.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said softly, voice careful, “I’m probably forcing you with these nightly visits. You probably want to be left alone. Now that I’ve confirmed you’re fine, free from the potion, maybe it’s time for me to disappear. Let you enjoy your calm life. I’m too loud anyway, right?”

  The tether screamed. She sat perfectly still.

  He smoothed his expression flat.

  “You done eating?” he asked casually, attempting to float her plate and fork into his satchel.

  She allowed it, hands trembling just slightly, small enough he pretended not to notice.

  Then he flicked his fingers, sending his pillow drifting lazily through the air, until her hands shot up, clutching it mid-flight.

  Kion tilted his head, pasting on a melancholy little smile, “Lunlun?”

  Her eyes darted to his, then skittered away to the floor.

  Fingers twitched around the pillow’s corner, refusing to release it.

  He held it steady, hovering.

  Her voice cracked, barely audible, “don’t...”

  The fear through the tether slammed into him. Raw, panicked, and urgent.

  And all he could do was hide the grin threatening to break free.

  He summoned his illusion, plastering calm over his features while, beneath it, his mouth stretched wider with each passing second.

  Stars, he loved this trick.

  Hiding every spark of delight, every edge of triumph, leaving only the expression he chose for her to see.

  She dragged the pillow closer, holding it like a lifeline, “...Stay. Please.”

  Begging. Pleading. Through her lips, through the tether.

  He loathed the part of himself that thrilled at it. Hated it.

  But still, the grin behind the mask stretched farther than he let her see.

  She had said it. Out loud. She wanted him here.

  His voice, illusion-tempered, steady, flickered with mild surprise.

  “So you don’t want me to go.”

  Her fingers clutched the fabric tighter.

  He let the mask soften into a small, grateful smile.

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  Gently, he lowered the pillow back into her lap, where her hands clung to it still.

  “Then I’ll stay.”

  Her relief surged into him like a tide.

  He held his magic tight, smothering any slip of triumph, and busied himself pretending to reach for a book, giving himself a moment to smooth the wild edges of his emotion.

  But then her voice broke the quiet, “y-you won’t... report me... will you?”

  His grin threatened again. He tightened the mask, blanketing it.

  Right... she still thought he was Accord.

  Still thought his words carried authority.

  Still thought his presence was protection, not intrusion.

  “You know I won’t,” he said, pausing just long enough.

  Then, gentler, “but... as much as I want your answer, I want you to know I won’t leave, even if you stay silent. That won’t change.”

  The tether eased, relief mixing with confusion.

  He had stepped just right.

  She nodded faintly, gaze still down, fingers fidgeting with the pillow’s corner. Her left hand tapped the pocket at her hip.

  “I got... marked,” she whispered, reluctant, “by Bronze’s high councilor. Do you know a magic that makes a golden thread from your spine? It followed me, but didn’t anchor me.”

  Kion’s chest tightened, a rush of disbelief and thrill.

  She thought Arkwyn had cast the flaring tether, the one he had made.

  His stomach flipped. His wings twitched.

  He forced a chuckle back, pressing the mask into a flat, calm, curious tone, “never heard of it. What did it do?”

  She slipped her left hand into her pocket, curling around something inside.

  “The high councilor seemed... able to track me. Last time I was in Brandholt, he found me instantly. He knew I was the shadow who breached Kesherra’s restricted area.”

  A pause.

  “He might have watched me, waiting. But this inn is Accord’s. He won’t risk it here.”

  A surge of awe nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

  She had stopped him from leaving. She had admitted she wanted him close.

  The cold, sharp-eyed Writ had melted into someone trembling just to keep him near.

  And now she was trusting him with the secret behind her self-imposed prison.

  Telling him her fear about the golden spell. To him. To the one who had cast it.

  Impossible. Deliciously impossible.

  His fingers itched to reach for her, to laugh, to grip the moment and never let go.

  “Well,” he said simply, voice steady but charged, “I can help with that.”

  Her eyes lifted to him, finally.

  “I can’t say much about the golden thread. But I can make sure no one catches you.”

  Her brow knit, “...like your charm in Zeirath?”

  “Not quite,” he replied with a small shrug, stepping close until he stood before her, “different spell. Similar effect.”

  He held her gaze, mask smiling thin and easy, “you’ll be fine. I promise.”

  Silence stretched. She studied him, her hand restless in her pocket, metal clinking faintly inside.

  So he asked lightly, as though it were no more important than asking which blanket she wanted, “walk with me tonight?”

  No answer. The clinking continued.

  He softened his tone. Careless, easy, “only if you trust me enough. I don’t mind staying in, like always.”

  He perched on the edge of the table, swinging his legs as if offering her nothing heavier than a choice of pastime.

  But through the tether, he could taste the slow churn of her calculation, long and careful.

  He savored it, sipped every flicker behind her silence.

  Finally she answered, “...just around here. Not far. Then back.”

  “That’s more than enough,” his mask curved into a smile as he stood, “thank you for trusting me.”

  Her reluctant nod was small, almost hidden, “I’ll... get ready?”

  “Sure. Take your time. I’ll wait, however long it takes.”

  She rose, set his pillow carefully back on the bed, and gathered her disguise before slipping into the bathroom.

  “Lunlun,” he called softly, just as her foot passed the doorway.

  She paused, looking back.

  His gaze flicked to her pocket, “will you tell me what’s inside your pocket? I noticed you kept tapping it.”

  She froze, drawing her leg back. Head tilted down, the tether radiated guilt and fluster.

  Like a kid caught stealing candies.

  “If it’s private, you don’t have to,” he added, waving a hand, “go on, get ready. I’m not mad. I won’t leave.”

  She hesitated, weighing the moment, her mind turning it over.

  Kion cursed himself.

  Already too far, pushing harder than he should, asking more than she had willingly offered.

  But then she stepped closer.

  Right in front of him, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a familiar pouch.

  A plain coin pouch, his gift from Zeirath, given without thought, yet now holding her comfort in its simplicity.

  The tether pulsed with her embarrassment.

  She gripped the clothes in her hands, bracing herself.

  In the ruin, he’d noticed her compulsively tapping her notebook after his illusion trick.

  He was the cause of that habit. Now... she tapped his coin pouch instead.

  He felt his grin stretch impossibly wider.

  Still, he plastered on the sweetest smile.

  “I’m flattered it gives you comfort. Thank you, Lunlun. Really. I’m so happy I want to hug you!”

  He darted around her, a blur of wings and tiny movement, tether thrumming like a drum in his chest, catching every flicker of her relief, every inch of her shy, crooked smile.

  “I’m so excited for our walk! I hope you don’t change your mind... though you can, of course.”

  Her relief softened her features, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

  “I’ll get changed.”

  “And I’ll wait!”

  She darted back to the bathroom, coin pouch and disguise in hand.

  The moment the door clicked shut, Kion dropped the mask.

  His hands shot to his face, stifling the ridiculous grin and muffling a laugh he didn’t dare release.

  He forced slow breaths, letting the tide of excitement ebb from his chest.

  So that was it.

  She hadn’t stepped outside because she feared the golden thread would find her.

  It already had.

  Him.

  Yet she kept him from leaving. She let his gift anchor her.

  He stroked the tether, light as a prayer. It shivered back, fragile but real.

  Oh, if only he could bottle this moment. Trap it in glass, replay it whenever he wanted. Proof that he wasn’t the only one consumed by the tether.

  Once, he’d called this fever madness and tried to beat it out of himself.

  But she had spoken his name, begged him to stay, chosen him.

  How could he call it madness now, when it felt like proof?

  Still, he knew the truth.

  That the thread could hollow him out, drag them both deeper than either had planned.

  And yet he couldn’t bring himself to resist. Not anymore. Not now.

  She was sinking with him.

  Slowly. Surely.

  And for the first time, he did not fear the fall.

  He knew there’d be a price. He’d pay it later.

  Tonight, he would allow himself this.

  A dance with the madness they had tangled into together.