Kion's POV

  Room 203, Binding Post Inn, Brandholt City

  Kion had been nodding along with approval, cloaked tight in the corner, when Caustic prepared to leave the room.

  In his mind, the man was already filed neatly into the good person box. Respectful, careful, even kind in that tired, brittle way people sometimes grew into.

  But then the tether bucked.

  Her panic slammed into him like a misstep in flight, dread rushing through his ribs so sharply he nearly winced aloud. Her mask snapped closed in the same instant Caustic’s boot buckle clicked shut.

  Kion’s head whipped between them.

  To Writ, pale beneath her composure.

  To Caustic, calm as ever, tugging his strap into place.

  What did he miss?

  What had Caustic said to turn her pulse into knives?

  By all accounts, the man had been harmless. He’d asked before he acted, shared scraps of intel, left her space.

  The whole interaction had been steady, almost mundane. No force. No coercion.

  Yet the fear didn’t fade when the door clicked behind him.

  It thickened, heavy and tar-like, clinging to Kion’s own skin until his wings twitched.

  A flicker of resentment sparked. Maybe Caustic hadn’t meant harm, but if Writ felt hunted by him, then harm was done.

  Good person box or not, Kion shifted him into the other one. Bad. Threat. Enemy.

  The air around her changed, the way heat shifts before a storm. He didn’t know why.

  He hovered for a moment, debating whether to stay cloaked and give her silence or reveal himself and risk breaking whatever fragile space she’d carved for herself. But patience had never been his strength.

  Not after watching her endure a trial dressed up as a report, and now this.

  The spell unraveled. He touched down softly beside her.

  “L-”

  He tried to say her name, but his throat closed around it. Something pressed at his neck, invisible, tight.

  Through the tether came a pulse. Quick, sharp, then gone, as if she’d cut it off halfway.

  He cleared his throat and tried again, “Lunlun?”

  His hand brushed her arm, quietly grateful that the strange pressure had passed, “are you okay?”

  She didn't reply.

  Long enough that he almost thought she hadn’t heard him.

  Her chest moved. A shallow rise, a pause, then another, as if she was trying to draw words out but they kept dissolving before reaching air.

  The tether quivered with something unspoken, brittle as glass. Her eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, empty as glass.

  Then, at last, her voice. Thin, frayed, “no.”

  Kion shifted down until he was level with her face, “what happened?”

  Silence first, then a breath sucked in too sharply.

  She raised an arm to shield her face, as if even the ceiling bore witness. The tether pulled taut, coiled with something sharper than fear alone, something that wanted to speak and couldn’t.

  “Something wrong? Lets talk it out,” his voice came out gentler than he felt.

  Her answer cracked in halting pieces, “I... made a mistake. At the very end. Might ruin the whole report.”

  His brow tightened, “how so?”

  Her arm slid back just enough for one eye to meet him, “were you in this room the whole day? Did you see Caustic here?”

  The lie came easily, as if he truly hadn’t left the room once today, “yes. I concealed myself the moment both of you entered.”

  “Then you must’ve heard him. He thinks I’m attached to a subject.”

  As if that explained everything, she covered her face with her arms again.

  Kion blinked.

  Searching memory, coming up empty.

  Did Caustic actually say that?

  “When did that happen?” he asked.

  “When he was putting his shoes on. Right before leaving.”

  “Uh... huh?” He rubbed the back of his neck, wings twitching once.

  “I don’t recall him saying that.”

  “He said the next trial will be mentally harsher if I actually care about any of the subjects.”

  Kion blinked again. Twice.

  He was almost certain Caustic hadn’t phrased it that way. But the timing fit.

  The moment when her fear had slammed into him through the tether.

  “That means,” she continued, breath quickening, “he assumed I feel differently than what I admitted. That I have lingering attachment. What if his words go straight to the Veiled? What if he reports my slip?”

  Kion pressed his lips together, glad she couldn’t see his dumbfounded expression.

  “...Didn’t he say none of that would be reported?”

  “The conversation won’t. But his assessment of me might.”

  He lowered himself fully to sit on the floor beside her, satchel pressing awkwardly at his hip.

  His face must have looked a picture of pure confusion.

  Her fear, though. That was real. Tangible.

  The tether hummed with it. She truly believed she’d stumbled.

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  It felt like chasing shadows.

  He prided himself on his instincts, and Caustic hadn’t struck him as malicious. If anything, the man was steadier, even more decent, than Kion had expected.

  But he held his tongue. He wasn’t about to dismiss her when she was wound this tightly.

  If she saw teeth in the dark, maybe there were teeth. And she was the one living in their jaws.

  “Do you...” he hesitated, groping for the right word, “want me to tail him? See if he says anything to the Veiled?”

  Her reply came quick, automatic, “no. I can handle it.”

  “Alright,” he leaned back slightly, wings folding tight, “tell me if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

  “Just need to process. Please just stay in fairy-” She cut herself short.

  Her arm shifted down, her gaze locking onto him. He felt the flicker of realization catch through the tether.

  “Yes...?” he asked, cautious.

  “You can do that?” she pressed, “tail him inside the hall, undetected?”

  His stomach dipped.

  Right. She didn’t know. He’d never told her what his magic could do.

  Why had he offered it so plainly? He was supposed to keep it hidden.

  What if she thought he’d been tracking her all along?

  What if she realized he’d already seen too much?

  Too late to backtrack. He exhaled once and gave the truth.

  “I can. Do you want me to? I don’t know exactly where he went, but I could probably still catch him. It hasn’t been long.”

  Calm rippled faintly through the tether, small but real.

  “...Yes, please.”

  “Alright. I’ll go.” He rose, wings stretching, satchel already slung tight across his shoulder.

  “Return if it gets dangerous. Don’t risk yourself.”

  “I won’t.”

  One hand braced against the floor, he launched upward, wings brushing the air. Invisibility cloaked him again before his feet touched the vent.

  And then he was gone, flying fast toward the chamber where Writ had given her report, hoping Caustic would be headed there.

  He wanted to shake her and tell her her fear was unreasonable.

  But he wanted more to bring her something solid, anything that could ease the pressure he felt strangling her through the tether.

  Except the longer he flew, the more he realized the fear had already spread into him.

  And now, despite himself, he half-believed it too.

  That she’d slipped at the very end.

  That she might already be doomed.

  Finding Caustic was easy.

  He went back to the place Writ had her trial.

  Someone’s office... Tiran, maybe? Was that the name of the man in the center? Yeah. Probably that.

  Kion had no idea why he could still catch him in the corridor.

  Caustic walked fast enough that Kion expected him already inside, and then Kion would’ve had to find another way to slip through.

  A vent, maybe, though in places like this, vents were traps waiting to happen. Best not.

  Whatever the reason for the delay, it was luck, and he wasn’t about to question luck.

  Caustic knocked. A muted voice gave permission, and they entered.

  The panel inside hadn’t shifted since earlier. Each member was absorbed in their work.

  Caedern wrote something briskly, then cleared his table the moment Caustic crossed the threshold.

  The others didn’t bother with pretense.

  The Veiled spoke first, “how was it?”

  “The question was actually written on the checklist,” Caustic replied as he approached her. He placed Junior’s sheet on the table, tapping the line in question.

  “Here. And I brought the previous session’s checklist she practiced with. Just in case.”

  Drenna leaned in to read. Pious bent beside her for a peek.

  When finished, Drenna passed the sheet to Tiran.

  “Was it you, Caedern?” she asked.

  “Quite an accusation,” Caedern’s mouth twitched, “wasn’t Caustic the one who carried it in yesterday?”

  “It wasn’t there when I brought it in,” Caustic countered, “and you told me you’d hold onto it while I fetched Writ from the lobby.”

  “Do you have proof?” Caedern’s smirk barely shifted.

  Drenna exhaled, weary already.

  Kion hovered, watching.

  The thought slid in before he could stop it.

  Maybe it was time to do something about this Caedern. He irritated everyone, didn’t he?

  Wouldn’t it be a favor, to Writ, to the Veiled, if Kion just... nudged him out of the way?

  A canteen slipped open, a few drops into his drink. Poison. No, too obvious. Laxative then, enough to flatten an elephant. Simple. Silent.

  The image was so sharp Kion found himself drifting closer, landing by Caedern’s feet as if already searching for his bag.

  His chest tightened when he saw none, only a folder. The thought dissipated like smoke, leaving him startled at how quickly it had come, how easily.

  He shook himself. Not now. Not ever, maybe.

  “Doesn’t matter who wrote the question,” Tiran cut in, “now we know it wasn’t her improvisation. That’s all that matters.”

  “Generous and thoughtful, our Harbinger,” Caedern murmured, stacking his folder.

  “Shut up. Now leave,” Tiran snapped.

  “Yes, yes, I retract. Not generous at all,” Caedern drawled, already turning, “wouldn’t even still be here if our dear Drenna hadn’t insisted I wait for Caustic.”

  The shadow-wrapped woman at the Veiled’s side blinked. Caustic’s brow twitched. Both masks held otherwise firm.

  Kion shivered.

  The masks were everywhere. Not the kind Writ wore alone, not the way she held herself to survive. Here, it was culture. Rule.

  Every Accord shadow seemed carved from the same requirement. Unshifting expression, no matter the bite of the words or the sting of insult. Writ hadn’t invented it. She’d inherited it.

  And how heavy must it be, wearing that skin every day.

  “How’s the appeal?” Tiran asked.

  “Gale will see the Head in two days,” the Veiled replied, “we wait until then.”

  “Alright.”

  Tiran returned the sheet to her. She passed it to Caustic, who clipped it to a board.

  Caedern stood, lifted a hand without turning, “see you in two days.”

  “Contact you after the result,” Drenna said flatly.

  “Looking forward to it,” the door shut on his back.

  Drenna sighed again.

  Kion thought back to Writ’s trial.

  He’d expected unity, discipline. But their dynamic... no, it wasn’t seamless.

  Friction simmered here, too. Even the Accord could snarl against itself.

  Tiran pulled a thin slate from his desk and began typing, glyphs glimmering faint and fast. It looked like Fenwick’s relay, except sharper, more contained. A prototype maybe. Accord-made, no doubt.

  Kion drifted behind, curiosity prickling.

  Drenna bent toward the others, whispering her next schedule. Kion caught a name, Pious, the shadow woman.

  Strange naming sense, though not stranger than anything else about them.

  Still no word of Writ. Not even her name.

  Kion focused his attention to the glyph-tech, ears tilted toward the voices on his right.

  Finally Drenna rose. Pious drew her chair back with neat precision.

  “I’ll take my leave,” Drenna said.

  “Take care,” Tiran replied, eyes never leaving the slate.

  She walked toward the door, Caustic falling in behind her. Pious hurried ahead to open it, then moved to her flank.

  Kion drifted reluctantly from the glyph-slate, slipping through before the door closed.

  In the waiting room, Pious repeated the motion, holding the next door wide, shutting it once they passed, then resuming her guard position.

  Kion frowned.

  Servant gestures. He’d seen them enough at noble gatherings.

  But Drenna’s gait wasn’t noble-born. Grounded. Deliberate. The steps of a fighter. The veil didn’t hide the way her head angled, eyes sweeping the corridor.

  Caustic and Pious matched her in rhythm. Not a stroll. Not relaxation in their own headquarters. Soldiers on a battlefield.

  Why? Weren’t they home here?

  Caustic broke the silence, unclipping the papers and handing them over, “hold the files.”

  Pious raised a brow, said nothing, and obeyed. Caustic kept the empty clipboard.

  They continued in silence.

  And so did Kion, hovering behind.

  His mind sank into restless calculation. With how to gather the answers Writ needed without tailing them every waking hour.

  The tether pulsed. Not faint this time, but sharp, urgent. Like a hand clutching his chest from far away.

  It wasn’t words, but it felt like one: don’t leave me.

  His breath caught.

  Writ was still there, alive, but the echo of her fear bled through the thread, raw enough that it stung him.

  She thought she’d failed, thought she’d dragged him into her mistake.

  Kion pressed his lips together, keeping pace behind the shadows.

  He couldn’t answer her, couldn’t send anything back.

  But he let the plea settle into him all the same, a vow carved silent.

  He wasn’t letting go.