The minutes dragged like stones in her chest. Every creak from the road, every insect’s wing against the grass, seemed louder than his silence. She thought she would fold under it, the weight pressing her ribs inward. But she kept breathing, steady and deliberate, kept her hand in his, let the night settle heavy on her shoulders.

  Then he stirred at last, a faint hiss caught between his teeth. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, once, but steadier this time, not the tremor of earlier.

  “I’m... sorry for being quiet,” his voice was hoarse, scraped thin, “it’s not you. I just needed to make sure the sky wouldn’t disappear before I found the words.”

  He didn’t look at her. His gaze stayed fixed on the stars, as if their pale scatter was the only anchor left to him. She wondered if he expected her to fill the silence, just like how he usually did with his comforting words. Yet she didn't know how to start.

  As if feeling her wonder, his hand tightened around hers again.

  “I know I’ve said it, but... I’m glad you found me. I definitely would still be running if you hadn’t.”

  She shifted, leaning on her side to better study his profile. One hand rested on his shoulder, grounding him, while the other remained caught in his, “I felt it... your panic,” she said simply.

  His eyes flicked toward her, startled, blinking once.

  “I went to Tiran’s office and waited. You weren’t there. Then that panic hit. So sudden, so foreign. It didn’t feel like mine. I thought it might be you.”

  A ripple of curiosity passed over his face, fleeting but sharp, “how’s that possible?”

  “It wasn’t supposed to happen?” she asked in return.

  “I... don’t know. I thought it was just me. One-sided.”

  “Apparently not. Maybe,” she let a small smile break across her lips, squeezed his hand gently, “whatever it was, it made me search harder. I found you when you left the building.”

  His throat worked as he swallowed, “was my bubble... red?”

  “No. Clear. The usual.”

  “And you saw me?” His tone pressed harder now.

  “Clearly,” she assured him, “I wouldn’t have been able to find you if I couldn’t.”

  She hesitated, then added quietly.

  Surprise widened his eyes, “I... didn’t set any exception. No one should be able to see me.”

  Then something dawned. He pressed his hand hard over his mouth, as if he could physically stop whatever thought was about to spill free.

  Curiosity tugged at her sharper than before. But she knew she shouldn’t push. He had given her silence when she needed it, held the space open until she could speak. She owed him the same patience.

  “I was... worried... my request would hurt you,” she said at last, her own voice careful, “I wish I could retract it. I wish I’d never said it.”

  Her fingertip brushed the dark stain on his sleeve, slow and cautious, “Are you... hurt?”

  He turned his hand toward her touch, gave a small shake of his head, “no. It’s not mine. I’m fine.”

  “Whose, then?”

  “That... I’m not sure,” he paused, then asked, “do you know if Caustic is a mage?”

  She frowned and shook her head, “can’t you sense it yourself? Isn’t it easier for casters to feel each other?”

  “That’s the problem,” Kion’s jaw tightened, “they don’t feel like mages. Not Caustic, not Drenna, not Pious.”

  His brows drew lower, “and the other one who chased me... definitely a mage. But not the same kind. No blood involved.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  She blinked, processing the names, “is Drenna the Veiled’s name?”

  “Yes. They never told you that?”

  She shook her head once, “introductions were never necessary.”

  Surprise flickered across his features, “how-”

  He cut himself short with a breath, fingers brushing his chin.

  He changed direction, “anyway. I followed them to the Black Quill office. That’s when Caustic found me, and that... weird magic activated.”

  “Caustic found you while you were cloaked?”

  “Yes. And as if that wasn’t strange enough, someone was controlling blood,” his voice dipped, “the smell was unmistakable. It moved. It followed. And it... painted me. Marked me like prey.”

  “There’s a magic that controls blood?” Disbelief crept into her tone.

  He swallowed, gaze flicking to the stain again, “I didn’t feel Caustic cast anything. He really didn’t feel like a mage at all,” a beat, “but the blood reacted when he looked at me.”

  “Water magic doesn’t behave like that. And I couldn’t sense any mana manipulating it,” his words came sharper, strained, “the way it moved was so... precise. You can’t command that much coverage without leaving a single trace.”

  She kept her eyes on him, “what did it do? Specifically?”

  “At first it was droplets. Beads hanging in the air. Then a film over the doorframe. Polkadots crawling across every surface. And when it touched me-” he cut himself off. His shoulders hunched. He rubbed his wrist, over and over, as if scrubbing something invisible away. His voice thinned to a whisper, “it clung. Left a trail. Like veins trying to claim me.”

  Guilt coiled low and hot in her gut. She imagined what he had gone through. Because of her, because she was too weak to handle it alone.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  If only she hadn’t asked it of him. The task had been a poor match from the start. He might have been caught. She had no idea how Black Quill would have reacted to being tailed. Caustic had treated her kindly once, yes, but she had already forgotten how sharp Accord’s shadows could be. Forgotten that even Tiran and Caedern gave Caustic a seat beside them, sent by Drenna herself to act in her stead. That Caustic walked always at Drenna’s side. Such level of trust meant capability. A guard trusted to watch her back.

  But...

  “Did the magic actually belong to Caustic?”

  “I couldn’t tell. It could’ve been any mage nearby... or glyph-tech. It only triggered in their office.”

  “A trap?” she asked, “did it spring the moment you entered?”

  “No. Not right away,” he scratched the back of his neck, restless, “After Caustic confirmed I was there, he... talked to me. Gave me a chance to explain why I tailed them.”

  Her brow knit, “huh?”

  “He offered options. I could ask him questions, or step inside and reveal myself if I needed protection. He promised safety either way.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Really. I didn’t believe it myself,” a thin smile tugged his mouth, “there was a third option, though. If I was there to hurt any of them, he said, ‘good luck trying.’”

  “That’s... difficult to believe,” she murmured, “and did you actually ask him?”

  “I did. By paper. I wrote the questions, threw them to him. He read them out loud and answered just like that," he let go of her hand, "let me shift back to fairy form, I’ll show you the recording.”

  The warmth of his hand dissolved in hers, scattering like dust. The human outline in front of her blurred, then collapsed into air. He hovered lightly, wings stirring the grass as he rummaged through his satchel. At last he drew out a memory stone. Small, pearl-sized even when it swelled. Far smaller than any she’d seen.

  She rose and sat on the grass to peer closer.

  Kion pulsed mana into the stone. It glowed faintly, then Caustic’s voice filled the night air. Reading Kion’s question aloud, answering in calm rhythm.

  Confirmed possibility of undeclared assessment. No telling how to differentiate it. And how Black Quill had daily life, unreported.

  She tilted her head. Black Quill didn’t sound as monstrous as she had expected. Maybe their protection meant what it sounded like. Not surveillance, but safety. Maybe they did accept requests from Treshfold-made, even ones they didn’t know. Maybe they did act when a handler overstepped.

  Kion floated the stone into her palm, “that’s all I could ask without revealing your case. Sorry I couldn’t be more specific.”

  She shook her head, “this is... already more than enough.”

  She fed mana into the stone again. The same voice, the same exchange. It dragged her back. To when Caustic had stood in her room, frustrated she hadn’t received her rights. And further still, to another voice, another lifetime. A man far viler, whose approval she’d once broken herself to earn.

  Would Black Quill have acted then, if she had asked? Acted faster than Accord? Would she have been spared Thorn Marching if she’d spoken up?

  There was no knowing now. Not anymore.

  But... if Caustic offered questions freely, if Black Quill was that benevolent, why had they attacked Kion?

  “What happened then?” she asked, “they let you ask, then they attacked? Without prompt?”

  “Well...” he stiffened midair, hovering upside down, then righting himself again, buying time.

  She waited. Pressed mana into the stone a third time.

  The seventh bell tolled, deep and resonant. Its iron song rolled across Brandholt, heavy strokes rippling through the air. Each strike rattled faintly in her ribs, drowned the insects, set the grass quivering under her palm.

  But beneath it, barely, she caught it. Footsteps in the grass. Not on the path that led to the gate, but angled straight toward them.

  Kion turned, posture sharp. A cloaked figure closed the distance, one hand cradling a flat, circular device with chains dangling from it, like a pocket watch glinting in the dark.

  She slid the memory stone into her pocket, let her hands settle on her belt.

  Lunlun locked away. Writ awake.

  Her gaze fixed on the cloaked figure approaching, the chained disk gleaming in their hand. The night itself seemed to hold its breath.