The door to Tiran’s waiting room opened without the smallest creak, the hinges silent as if they, too, had learned to keep secrets.

  Writ didn’t step through at once. She lingered on the threshold, the air felt stagnant here, as though hesitation itself had drawn a line between the corridor and the bright, familiar chamber beyond.

  Her fingers brushed the edge of the scarf around her throat. Just in case she needed to cover her face. If anyone asked, she’d say it was for the cold. Near sunset, after all. Easy enough to believe.

  Was Kion still inside? Were they still speaking with Tiran, all of them gathered in that office with words sharpened like blades? Or had the discussion ended already? Kion gone, the others scattered down different hallways.

  If it was finished, perhaps he’d already slipped back to the inn. Perhaps she would return to her room and find him waiting there, leaned against the window frame with his easy grin. As always. A fragile image she almost clung to. If that happened, Tiran would never know she’d come this far, that she’d hovered on the edge of his door. There was still time to retreat.

  But what if she went back and found only silence? A hollow room, sheets unruffled, air still. That emptiness would crush her flat, leave her paranoia gnawing without restraint.

  A sound interrupted her stalling. The muted rhythm of approaching footsteps. Instinct snapped her spine taut. Without giving herself more room to think, she slid past the door and into the waiting room. The door swung shut behind her with a quiet click that sealed her in.

  What now?

  She made herself move carefully, weight spread soft in each step as she crossed the floor. Her path curved toward the inner office, though her body argued with every pace. She slowed at the door, pressed her palm against its panel, the wood cool against her skin.

  She listened.

  At first, nothing. Only the kind of emptiness that magnified the thud of her own pulse. Her chest tightened around the hush. Then a scrape, the faint drag of wood across stone. A chair leg shifting. One? Two? She couldn’t be certain. The sound had been there, that was enough.

  A thin seam of light marked the base of the door. It glowed steadily, throwing a dull line. A shadow passed across it, brief as a bird’s wing, and Writ drew her hand back sharply. Someone moving. She told herself it was Caustic, pacing, shuffling papers.

  Or... Kion?

  No. Not Kion. He cloaked himself for a reason. He wouldn’t risk making noise. Wouldn’t risk being visible. Not where detection ran this thick.

  She lingered, torn between knocking and vanishing. She could rap once, hold out the prepared paper with her excuse. Simple, tidy, plausible. She wouldn’t even have to meet Kion’s gaze. He would understand. He always did. He would follow her out afterward. She hoped.

  But what if she cut across something important? What if they turned sharp eyes on her for daring to intrude? One interruption might paint her in brighter, harsher colors. Another reason to grind her down.

  She wasn’t ready for that risk.

  So she let her body tilt away from the door, stepping back until the edge of the sofa caught the backs of her knees. She lowered herself onto the cushion with deliberate care, as though making too much sound might summon the wrong person.

  Across from her sat the yellowing succulent, its skin softening, edges spotted brown. It had been her silent companion for every wait. Neglected, left here week after week, never watered, never replaced. Tiran didn’t care enough to tell the staff. Or perhaps he preferred it this way, a plant left to wither outside his door, like those who waited for him.

  Work hours would close soon. If the panel was still gathered inside, they would have to spill out eventually. Officially, at least. The Hall of Accordance kept its polite civilian schedule, a facade for the public. The Shadow Accord had no such limits, they worked through hours no civilian ever saw.

  Please, she thought, let it be the Veiled first. She could manage that. She would pass the paper into her hand, let the Black Quill do their work, and endure the mark. She’d already braced herself for it when she left her room. She could handle it.

  But if it was Caedern...

  Her throat tightened. She wasn’t ready. Not for his tricks, not for the laughter he slipped between his words. The memory of humiliation at the last report session still clung to her skin like damp cloth. Tainted with the echo of a man she’d rather forget. She couldn’t face that again. Not yet.

  Her eyes darted to the office door once more. If only Kion noticed her here. If only he came out before anyone else.

  And if Tiran himself stepped out first? That was a different trap. Would he accept her excuse with the same cool detachment as the Black Quills? Or would his eyes cut deeper, see the seams she tried to hide? He knew her too well. He’d lifted her from the dust once, steadied her when she was weakest. If anyone could read her, it was him.

  Caustic’s words tugged at her again, unmoored. Had Tiran truly fought for her? Caustic had said so, but nothing more. What did it mean? Fight how, fight for what? Was he silently bracing her from behind, his loyalty a shield she couldn’t see? Or was that another cruelty wrapped as comfort?

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  She didn’t know. She might never know. And she knew she would never ask.

  Her boots tapped once, an anxious stutter against the floor. She caught herself, pressed her soles flat, forced her legs still. No one could notice. No one could hear.

  Then she drew in a slow breath through the scarf wrapped high around her mouth, its fabric muffling the tremor of her breath, the warmth grounding her. For a heartbeat she let herself hide behind it. Then straightened, spine stiffening back into poise.

  The waiting had only begun. And yet it already pressed against her ribs like an eternity.

  The inner door handle shifted.

  Writ shot upright too fast, knee grazing the low table. The succulent trembled, pot rattling, a little scatter of dry soil rolling across the glass. As if the plant itself startled with her.

  She had only seconds to reassemble her face. To press the tremor back down her bones, smooth the panic into nothing. Every line set flat, every pulse hidden.

  The door opened.

  Tiran stepped out, office bag in hand. His expression was its usual unreadable calm, but a blink lingered. Confusion, quickly shuttered. He closed the door behind him. Locked it. She didn’t even get a glimpse past his shoulder.

  “Writ?” His voice carried no edge, just the steady weight of recognition, “why here?”

  Her hand slid into her pocket, fingers brushing paper. She drew it free like it was always meant to be there. Her voice she forced into the same neutral register as her face, “I missed a file. I thought of destroying it myself, but Caustic insisted he had to see them burned clean. So I decided to let them handle this one.”

  The sheet passed between them, a neat offering. She steadied her tone further, “if the Black Quill have already left, I can bring it to their office instead.”

  Tiran glanced at the page, skimmed once, folded it into his bag as if it weighed nothing, “I’ll tell them. You don’t have to.”

  “Understood,” her nod was crisp, professional.

  Inside, disappointment cut sharp as a blade. Kion wasn’t here. He had already gone. Her waiting had been for nothing.

  Tiran’s gaze lingered. She matched it, mask held steady, though the silence pressed until her heartbeat tripped over itself.

  “May I leave?” she asked, voice flat.

  “You may.”

  Relief tugged at her shoulders as she faced the door, but before she reached the corridor door his voice came again.

  “Writ.”

  She turned back.

  “Survive it,” he said.

  No context, no elaboration.

  The phrase struck like a stone dropped into water. She blinked, the ripple spreading in her chest. Was it encouragement? Warning? Had he ever said such things? No. Didn't think so. Not to her. Not ever.

  Something swelled there, unfamiliar and sharp. She pressed it down, locked her reply into flatness, “I will.”

  A short nod. Then, “going back to the inn?”

  “No. I’ll walk around. Maybe for early dinner,” the lie slid easily, practiced. She couldn’t return yet. Not until she found Kion, or until he found her.

  Tiran studied her in silence.

  Finally, “walk outside with me.”

  There was no choice. She shifted aside to let him pass, then fell into step a few paces behind.

  He walked slower than usual. Deliberate? She couldn’t tell. Her urgency throbbed. Kion might be near, or already gone. But she leashed the thought. She couldn’t refuse Tiran. She would have to wait for him to vanish before doubling back.

  Regret snapped at her heels. Why hadn’t she checked the Black Quill office first? Why let herself sit like prey in that waiting room?

  She crushed the thought before it spiraled further. Fixed her gaze on the line of Tiran's back.

  The same back she had followed from the Nexus years ago, afraid he’d shove her into another handler’s cruelty. She’d braced for it.

  But he hadn’t.

  Instead, he’d offered her a choice, lodging anywhere she wanted. She’d panicked, too used to choices as traps, and whispered she’d stay with him. He hadn’t punished her hesitation.

  That first night she hadn’t slept, certain the door would burst open. It never did. Instead, he noticed her exhaustion the next day and bought locks, wards. Installed them himself, though she hadn’t touched them. She thought it was another test. But days stretched into years, and no night visit ever came.

  He had made life with him stable, predictable, dependable, even.

  But he had also delivered her to every punishment after every failure. Neutral, unbending, never soft enough to let mistakes slide.

  The memory closed its fist around her chest as they entered a public hall. Civilians passed, their steps a steady rhythm against stone. She matched Tiran’s pace, two and half a step behind, as she always had.

  That was Tiran. Constant. Neutral-faced, impossible to read. Perhaps that was why Caustic’s claim, that Tiran fought for her, still caught like a thorn. Did he? Could she believe it?

  They stepped out into the late light.

  The sun hung low, pale and watchful, stretching shadows thin. The sky hadn’t yet broken into orange, only a faint wash of warmth bleeding at the horizon. The rest remained soft blue.

  Tiran turned to her. His face gave nothing. She met it anyway.

  And then it hit.

  Panic. Sharp, invasive. Not hers.

  Her lungs seized, breath gone thin, as though a box clamped shut around her chest. Every inch of her skin prickled damp, sweat rising, air too hot and too cold at once. She glanced around. Poeple strolling, open sky above, nothing wrong. Yet the dread coiled tighter, choking.

  She locked her body still. Mask unbroken. Inside, she was drowning.

  “Need medic?” Tiran’s voice cut through, steady, almost mild.

  “N-no,” her throat scraped, “just need rest.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” she ground her heel into the swell of panic, forced herself to meet his eyes, “may I leave?”

  “You may.”

  Her nod was shallow, mechanical. She turned, walking in measured steps. Any direction that pulled her out of his sightline would do. Still, she felt his stare pressing between her shoulders.

  “Keep your word,” he said behind her.

  She dipped her head once.

  What word? She shoved the question into the long queue of thoughts already waiting. She couldn’t afford to untangle it now.

  Step by step she moved away, steady until his gaze dropped. She looked back only when he turned and walked off.

  Relief rushed through her chest like a gasp stolen back. For an instant, it steadied her.

  Then the foreign panic surged again, flooding her.

  Her own fear had rules, patterns, old familiarity. This wasn’t it. This was jagged, wrong, a dread that felt like someone else’s skin pressed over hers.

  Is this what Kion had meant, when he said he could feel when something was wrong with her?

  Why now?

  What could she do? She couldn’t run back inside. The excuse was gone with the file in Tiran’s bag. To return would only mark her.

  Her feet still carried her closer to the building entrance, until a flicker caught her eye.

  Movement in the air.

  Bubbles.

  Dozens, then more, bursting skyward, doubling and splitting, leaving soft trails that popped in seconds.

  Kion.

  It had to be him.

  Her body moved before her thoughts caught up. She ran, chasing the fragile trail toward the gates. The bubbles scattered, burst, reformed, always just ahead.

  Her face was uncovered now, mask forgotten, expression shown. None of it mattered. Not when Kion might slip beyond her reach.

  Not when it was her fault he might.

  Not when she was the one who had caused this mess.

  Not when she might lose the bright, perpetual warmth that had become her other constant.