Caustic Ink's POV

  Black Quill's Office, Hall of Accordance, Brandholt City

  Caustic passed through the film-covered door. The blood clung to his coat, warm and tacky, before retreating back into the frame with a reluctant pull. He crossed the room without a word, ignoring the sidelong glances from other Treshfold graduates and civilian who pretended to shuffle papers but slowed just enough to watch him pass.

  He knocked twice on Drenna’s private door, then entered without waiting.

  “We lost him,” Caustic said flatly as he lowered himself into the chair opposite her. His eyes caught the black veil draped across the table, folded but still damp from use, “Noetic offered to stay behind to clean up the mess. I let her.”

  Drenna sat slouched, fingers pressing into her temple as though she could force the ache back into hiding. Pious stood at her side and placed a cold towel in her hand. Drenna leaned back, setting it across her forehead with a muted groan.

  “Let me,” Pious murmured, tapping her wrist.

  Drenna exhaled and surrendered, letting Pious’s hands move into her hair, slow circles along her scalp.

  The quiet settled for a breath before Caustic spoke again, “sorry. For wasting so much of your stock, pushing you this far and still getting nothing.”

  “That’s fine,” Drenna said, though her tone betrayed fatigue more than reassurance, “that one isn’t normal.”

  Pious chimed in, “you managed to hit him with the clipboard, though. How?”

  “I felt his stare above us when we were walking back,” Caustic explained, “he only moved lower when he shadowed us through the door. He walked past the first one with us.”

  “He did?” Pious blinked, genuinely unsettled, “I didn’t even notice.”

  “Me neither,” Drenna added quietly.

  Caustic gave a humorless laugh, “I swung on a hunch. Best case, Pia laughs at me for a week. Worst case... well. We’re in the worst case.”

  Pious’s voice sharpened with curiosity, “what is he? Sentient glyph-tech?”

  “No. Alive. He has presence, faint but there. Too faint. That’s why I wasn’t sure it was real at all.”

  “A familiar, then?”

  He snorted, “does anyone have enough mana to maintain a familiar nowadays? And familiars don’t bring notebooks, let alone rip a page and write.”

  Pious made a quiet sound of agreement.

  “Do I sense it wrong,” Drenna asked after a long silence, “or did he actually split too many times?”

  “You’re not wrong,” Caustic said, resting his elbows on his knees, “he did it to shake your trail. Not sure how. Remarkable, really. I’ve never seen anyone manage it that quickly.”

  “Did you catch any glimpse?” Pious asked, her fingers never pausing.

  “No. Always the same. Sphere-shaped. Even when he passed the door. No features, no face.”

  “And he’s what?” Pious tilted her head, lips pursed, “forty centimeters? Fifty?”

  “The sphere was about that,” Caustic answered, “so whoever’s inside... smaller.”

  “And he actually flew?" Drenna's voice came out tired, "all the way to the sky?”

  Pious pressed her thumbs deeper into Drenna’s scalp.

  “I don’t know. We cut off once it reached public grounds. Would’ve caused a scene.”

  “So he can fly too?” Pious muttered.

  “He glued himself to the ceiling to avoid the first detection. Possible.”

  Pious shifted, “also, did you see the paper ball he threw? Small at first, then larger in the air. Think that’s magic too? Maybe that’s why he’s... what, kettle-sized?”

  “No idea such magic exists,” Caustic admitted, “even Eidryn’s compression glyph-tech never managed that. And certainly not on living flesh.”

  "Invisibility. Flight. Compression. The sphere thing... Barrier? That's a lot of ability to stack on one person," Pious said

  “we don’t have anyone like that," Drenna added, “Still, check with Personnel, just in case.”

  “Pretty sure we don’t,” Caustic said, “someone that skilled would’ve been marked the moment they joined. No matter Treshfold or civilian.”

  Drenna lifted a hand toward the table, “outsider, then?”

  Pious fetched the glass and passed it to her.

  “Most likely,” Caustic said, “he didn’t respond to the challenge. Even when I offered him anonymity.”

  Drenna drained the glass and returned it to Pious, shifting the towel that had slipped across her brow.

  “Give me his writings,” Drenna said, extending her hand.

  “Sure,” Caustic dug into his pocket, pulled out the folded scraps, then froze. He blinked, staring at the blank fibers.

  “What’s wrong?” Pious asked.

  “It’s empty,” he handed one to Pious, another to Drenna, keeping the last for himself.

  Pious stilled, hands leaving Drenna’s hair as she accepted the slip, “huh?”

  All three stared at paper that no longer carried ink.

  Drenna scowled, “can today be any more irritating? First the skunk and his incriminating improvisation. Now this intruder and his vanishing proof.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “But...” Pious frowned down at her slip, “why did he ask those questions at all?”

  Both Caustic and Drenna turned their eyes on her.

  Pious bit her lip, “don’t you think it’s strange? He asked about declared observation. How to tell it apart from normal interaction. And whether every contact with us gets reported. That’s not an outsider’s question.”

  “Exactly why I bothered to answer,” Caustic said, “I thought he was a whistleblower. Or someone mid-assessment.”

  “Then it sounds like he’s close with someone under assessment,” Pious’s voice grew firm.

  “Close enough to risk himself, slipping alone into the restricted wing of Accordance Hall?” Caustic’s skepticism carried weight.

  Pious shrugged slightly, still massaging Drenna, “his invisibility ignores clairvoyance. He can walk through wards like they’re nothing. All he has to do is wait until a door opens and trail behind before it closes. And...” she glanced at Caustic with a small, dry smile, “if he can distract even you, then yes, he’s capable. Doesn’t sound hard for someone with that skillset.”

  Caustic collected the papers back into his hand, “it’s still a mess. We can’t crosscheck every case to see which subject might be linked to someone like him. Bronze Nation has nearly a hundred on its own. And that’s without the undecided files, or international ones.”

  “Most likely a Bronze case,” Pious said, “he came here, after all.”

  Drenna’s eyes sharpened, “the intruder appeared after Silent Writ. What are the chances he’s tied to her?”

  Caustic tilted his head, weighing his words.

  “She barely leaves her room,” he said, “barely opened the window. Never has visitors. I asked the innkeeper. That’s why it took me a while to return.”

  “Textbook Harbinger,” Pious muttere, “no friends, no life outside Accord. And they praise them endlessly. Amazing Tiran keeps her stable even after... those... things.”

  Her hands continued their slow path down Drenna’s neck and shoulder.

  After a pause, Pious spoke again, almost a whisper, “did you ask why she did... that?”

  Caustic leaned back, “she said she was used to it. Most likely her previous handler. She thought, quote, that it was just how some people have fun, including that skunk. That’s why she did what she did.”

  Pious froze, “what?!”

  Drenna tilted her head, eyes narrowing.

  “That waste-of-air bastard!” Pious hissed, her fingers tightening in Drenna’s hair before she caught herself, “I should’ve gouged his eyes myself and use his shit-soaked husk to to scrub the floor with-”

  “Language,” Caustic cut in, voice sharp, “Drenna’s not well. Save your mouth for later.”

  Pious’s shoulders stiffened. Then she muttered, “right. Sorry. He just-” Her voice cracked under the frustration, “he makes me want to claw something apart. It was the worst case we handled back then, and it’s infuriating he got as far as he did,” she tugged at her own hair once, then forced herself to resume massaging Drenna’s shoulders instead.

  “Writ didn’t know she could reach us,” Caustic said quietly, “not even now.”

  “Tiran never told her?”

  “She said as much.”

  “I’ll speak to him later,” Drenna murmured.

  “We really should monitor every graduation,” Pious said, “shame Treshfold refuses.”

  Caustic shrugged, “less exploitable if they know.”

  Pious rolled her eyes, “right. Accord, at its finest.”

  “Accord under Halve,” Drenna corrected, “it wasn’t this bad when my father was still here. The Black Quill held more weight then.”

  “Bet tomorrow’s appeal gets rejected,” Pious muttered.

  “Pretty sure it will,” Drenna sighed, lowering herself against the desk. Pious’s hands shifted to her back.

  “That’s what happens when Halve and the skunk lead. Too greedy. Too reckless,” she closed her eyes.

  “I only hope their Blissbane scheme doesn’t bury us,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

  No one answered. For a while, only the sound of Pious’s hands moving through Drenna’s clothes filled the room.

  “Well,” Drenna said at last, voice thin, “one more thing we don’t need to dwell on. Along with the intruder.”

  “I’ll ask Noetic about securing physical protection for the office,” Caustic replied.

  “Do it. And tell her to send me the waiting-room projection.”

  Caustic stood, “she should be back by now. I’ll ask,” he paused at the door and looked over his shoulder, “rest, Drenna. Go to the bed, or just go home. I’ll handle the rest of the day.”

  “Let’s move?” Pious offered, holding out a hand.

  “Alright.” Drenna rose with her help.

  Caustic allowed himself a brief smile before stepping out.

  The office felt heavier than before. His eyes caught on the doorframe. The blood film still swirled sluggishly along the wood, a red veil clinging to the threshold. Next to it lay a scatter of drained bags, fresh from the cold storage.

  Drenna had already bled herself this week to maintain the stock. And still, she would insist on keeping the film intact until the guard lattice was placed. She took pride in her people’s safety, too much pride. Enough to hollow herself out for it.

  He wished it didn’t fall only to her. Wished he could take the needles, the drain, the burden. He would bleed himself dry if he could.

  But it wouldn’t matter. Only her blood obeyed.

  Caustic exhaled, long and low, and turned toward Noetic’s desk. She looked up, met his gaze, and nodded once in acknowledgment.

  He walked toward her, wishing the guard installation would be finished soon. Wishing Drenna would not keep pouring herself into the doorframe, into that restless, hungry film. Red and alive, as if waiting for something on the other side to press back.

  The Silent Writ's POV

  Room 203, Binding Post Inn, Brandholt City

  Ten minutes after Kion left her room.

  At first, it felt... calm. Almost merciful.

  Because someone had finally cared enough to offer help, and not just in words. He had moved, acted, shouldered what she could not.

  Because for the first time in too long, she wasn’t carrying the whole weight alone. The burden had shifted, if only by a fraction.

  That fragile relief lasted minutes. No more.

  The ‘what ifs’ arrived like a tide, unstoppable.

  What if his cloaking faltered? What if one of them sensed the gap? What if he stumbled into a net meant for her?

  Black Quill were not harmless scribes. They were marked targets even within Accord ground. They lived under constant attack as naturally as others lived under a roof. Wouldn’t that breed sharper defenses, stricter wards, more watchful eyes? If they caught him… would they see an intruder, a spy, a threat to be erased? Was there even a sliver of a chance they’d spare him because he held a higher rank?

  Her chest tightened. She pushed herself up from where she’d been lying, her back scraping against the floor. Every imagined failure pressed in, dense and suffocating.

  Had she just sent him to his doom?

  All because she was too weak to steady herself, too afraid of stumbling and failing, so she made him stumble in her place?

  The thought sent a cold tremor down her spine.

  He might still be in Tiran’s office. Maybe she could reach him. Maybe she could stop him before he followed Caustic into shadows too deep.

  She lurched to her feet, hand catching the door handle, then froze.

  What answer could she give, if they found her there? Caustic had seen her return. He had confirmed it. She had been dismissed. To appear again outside Tiran’s door would raise questions sharper than blades.

  Her hand stayed locked on the brass, nails digging faint crescents into her palm. The scenarios spun, one excuse after another, flimsy and transparent.

  Slowly, she let go.

  She turned instead to the desk, pulled open drawers with jerking motions. Paper rustled, scraps shifting until her fingers closed on a sheet already scarred with half-legible notes, used but not full. She dragged it out, spread it flat.

  It would serve.

  She seized the pen, ink blotting quick and uneven, and forced her memory into crooked lines. Rowan’s session. The safest. Snippets, questions, fragments of answers. Anything she could summon. The words came rushed, jagged, scrawled as though written in the first frantic minutes after an interrogation. Messy enough to look true, nearly unreadable.

  By the time the page was filled, her hand cramped, ink smudged along her fingers. She stared at it once, shallow breath, no corrections, and then folded it and rose.

  Her mask had to return.

  She stepped from the room, walking with purpose, flattening every trace of worry off her face until it was once more the expressionless slate they expected. She rehearsed the excuse in her head. If anyone asked, this was an overlooked file, one missed the purge, nothing more.

  Her stride was too brisk, too urgent. She tried to slow, failed.

  Not now. Not when Kion might already be inside a snare. Not when she might be the cause of his ruin.

  The dread came quiet but steady, like water seeping through stone. It gnawed at the edges of the mask she had fastened, threatening to break it apart.

  What if she had condemned him with her weakness?

  What if he never came back?

  What if she lost him for sure?