Kion hadn’t said anything since. He lay beside her, one arm bent behind his head like a makeshift pillow, the other resting beneath her hand. His gaze stayed fixed on the dark sky. Calm, unblinking, as though he could read something written in the stars that she couldn’t see.

  She hadn’t spoken either. Not because she didn’t want to. She just couldn’t remember how to start. How do you tell someone your voice forgot how to work?

  So she matched his silence.

  The calm that followed wasn’t peace. It was the stillness that comes after you stop falling. The uncertain quiet when you’re not sure if the ground under you is real. Her body no longer trembled, but her mind didn’t believe it was over.

  If she opened her mouth, she was afraid it would all start again. The choking breath, the noise in her head spilling out, the air turning to glass.

  The stars didn’t care what she couldn’t say.

  He didn’t either.

  Or maybe he did. Maybe this quiet existed because he was waiting. For her to explain, to apologize, to make sense of what just happened.

  She almost spoke. To say sorry, or to explain, or maybe just to fill the air. But his voice reached her first.

  “You don’t owe me any explanation,” Kion said quietly, “but I’m all ears if you want to talk about it.”

  The words fell soft, like a blanket. Light, but covering everything. Her throat tightened again, though this time it was from relief.

  No. Not now. Later, when things stopped spinning. When she stopped shaking. Or maybe never. That was fine too. He’d said it was fine.

  For now, she needed to drag herself back toward something like normal, pretend she was functional. Kion had given her the space for that, he wouldn’t protest. With him, pretending was safe.

  She shook her head once, a small, brisk movement, “...where were we again?”

  His lips curved, just slightly, “right. Caustic.”

  And that was that.

  The world tilted back toward something that resembled normal. Uneven, fragile, but firm enough to stand on.

  He started talking about how Caustic had asked him the same question, “why nine afraid of seven,” but he’d kept silent, afraid that answering might trace back to her. That silence had cost him. That was why the Black Quill went all out to chase him.

  She listened, half-understanding, half just grateful for his voice filling the places her thoughts might’ve invaded. She nodded when needed, hummed softly in response, let the rhythm of his voice anchor her breath again.

  Awe pricked faintly through the fog. He hadn’t told Caustic anything, not even under threat. He’d kept her secret. Protected her when it would’ve been easier not to.

  Her mind was still scattered, but she could see where the pieces might fit again. He didn’t mind her quiet. He adjusted to it, making his story longer, richer in detail. As though he sensed the pressure still haunting her and decided to speak in her place.

  Every word he offered made it easier to stay in her skin. He kept the world turning while she caught up.

  It was... peaceful. Almost.

  He talked calmly, every word chosen with care. She kept her eyes on the sky, unfocused, but her mind caught each thread. What he’d risked, the names he’d uncovered, his theory about the red droplets. She didn’t let herself feel any of it, only stored the information away. An archive for later, when it wouldn’t burn.

  His voice rose and fell, warm against the cold air. She let it wash over her, following its cadence like a tide. Sometimes she nodded, just to show she was still here.

  She always listened, even when she wasn’t sure she was fully there.

  Then his voice quieted.

  A different tone replaced it. Softer, rounder at the edges.

  “Actually,” he said, “I think you can have a rest for now. They won’t summon you tomorrow.”

  Her focus snapped back to him. He met her eyes, unhurried.

  “I have to go to work,” he added, “but if you’re not... ready to be alone, or just... need someone around. I can try asking for half a day. No promise, but I’ll come at lunch either way.”

  For a heartbeat she didn’t understand.

  If you’re not ready.

  The phrase landed strange in her ribs. She hadn’t realized how long it’d been since anyone asked if she was ready for something. Not ordered, not expected, but asked.

  Something loosened beneath her sternum. Not a breath, but maybe the idea of one.

  She didn’t nod or answer. She just looked at him. Inside, the tension cracked. A tiny shift, barely there, but real. If he could feel what she felt, he’d know.

  The air was finally breathable again. Maybe it would really be okay to talk. About the box of things stored in her closet. Later. When she was ready.

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  But not yet.

  She noticed how he left her an out. Didn’t press, didn’t elaborate. The earlier topic about Caustic he’d stretched for her sake. This one he cut short, because it was hers to choose.

  She could’ve taken the escape. If she stayed silent, the topic would vanish until tomorrow. But tomorrow meant waiting. Waiting meant dread. And dread had a way of seeping into cracks before dawn. Better to face it now, while she was already on the ground.

  “H-how could you be so sure?” she asked, her voice papery and small, “the summons.”

  He looked at her a moment too long, maybe sensing everything she couldn’t say.

  “They mentioned Gale will have an appeal to the Head in two days,” he said after a pause, “so I guess they won’t do anything until then. They also seem to be... in discord. Mainly with Caedern.”

  The name made her flinch. He’d skipped the title deliberately. She noticed.

  “They?”

  “Tiran and... the one you called the Veil. Drenna.”

  Her chest ached with the effort of staying composed. His gaze stayed steady, unintrusive, giving her space to process. Did everyone really drop titles in private? Not just a Black Quill privilege? Or was Kion high enough to do that? She filed the thought away.

  “Who’s Gale?” she asked, quieter now.

  He hummed, thinking, “I wish I could tell you, but that’s something I can’t answer if you don’t already know him.”

  “You m-mentioned Drenna and Pious. Didn’t seem to... trouble you.”

  “You already know them. Different case,” his voice stayed light, but the air beneath it felt taut.

  She nodded. The part of her that wanted to push further knew better. Walls were familiar. She followed his gaze back to the stars, “what’s the... appeal about?”

  “That I couldn’t find out. They didn’t elaborate. Probably something tied to your next task,” he said, shifting slightly, his fingers brushing hers, “because it came up right after Caedern was accused of adding that extra question behind what was agreed.”

  “I... knew it,” her hand found his, squeezed gently.

  “Sounds like he’s a trouble for everyone,” he tried to pull his hand back, playfully, “why doesn’t anyone step up? Protest him, file a report, something.”

  “What good would it do?” Her grip tightened, “nobody cares how they treat Tres- shadows. We’re just breathing tools. Used when functional, discarded when broken. Tested when suspicious. Consumables. Why would anyone step up?”

  Her own voice startled her. Too measured, too steady. It sounded detached, as though she were describing someone else’s life. Because it's easier to talk about the system than about the part of her it hollowed.

  Kion went still. Then, instead of pulling away, his thumb brushed over her knuckles, slow and grounding.

  She closed her eyes, pushing down the rising noise. That man’s voice in her head. The one that had defined what “useful” meant. She buried it again, deeper this time.

  “Unless he has other cases stacked against him, filed by someone higher, nothing will happen,” she murmured, “he’s a Judge. He knows how to bend rules without breaking them.”

  She heard Kion’s quiet inhale. Instinctively, she mirrored it. When he finally spoke, his voice was a whisper, “I see.”

  Silence followed. A soft shift of air. His fingers moved hesitantly.

  Then he lifted her hand, pressing her palm against his cheek. His eyes found hers again, unflinching.

  “I wish you’d stay with me,” he whispered.

  She felt the layers behind the words. A plea, not possession.

  Stay steady. Stay alive.

  A wish to keep her here, to not lose her to silence again. It matched her own unspoken prayer.

  “I’ll try,” she breathed.

  That was all she could promise. To try. The future had never belonged to her anyway.

  But he smiled, soft and bright, “so will I.”

  The warmth of it seeped through her chest like light through cloth. Intangible, yet enough to make her forget the chill. She inhaled deeply. He did too.

  “So...” he said after a moment, tugging her gently upright, “that’s all I got from following Caustic today.”

  He offered a flask that seem to come out from nowhere, “sorry it’s not much.”

  “That’s... more than enough,” she whispered.

  She drank without thinking. Cool water slid down her throat, washing away the leftover sweetness of Knell’s bread and the taste of old memories clinging to it. The flask was almost empty when she handed it back.

  He tipped it up, catching the last drops.

  Guilt flickered through her, “s-should’ve told me to share.”

  “Nah,” he grinned, still holding the empty flask, “I’ve got plenty. Need more?”

  Her shoulders eased. “Oh. I thought-”

  “Nice to know you care,” he teased, chuckling as he tucked the flask away. It vanished somewhere into his glamour.

  She opened her mouth to respond, found no words, and looked down at the grass instead. Heat rose uninvited to her cheeks.

  He laughed softly and patted her hair, “alright. Guess we both hit the limit for tonight.”

  He lay back down, stretching with a sigh, “want to talk about something lighter? I can keep rambling if it helps. Or we can just stargaze and let the wind do the talking.”

  She shifted closer, lowering herself beside him again, “keep going.”

  Kion adjusted his arm so she could rest against it and began talking. About people she didn’t know. Two loud friends who bickered like a circus act, a woman everyone called Grandma who loved the nickname, the craftsman who’d made his satchel and still scolded him like a child.

  Light stories. Safe ones. Worlds untouched by her kind of violence.

  Sometimes she closed her eyes just to focus on his voice. Sometimes she watched the slow rise and fall of his chest. His words kept her anchored. Pulled her closer to warmth she’d forgotten how to seek. Too close, maybe. But she didn’t mind.

  When she finally felt safe enough, she spoke.

  At first it was halting. Fragments, pauses, a voice that forgot how to carry itself. But he waited. Looked away when she faltered, back when she found her footing again.

  She told him about today’s session. How Drenna finally appeared after her previous absences. How the preparation with him had steadied her report. How Caustic had escorted her home.

  She didn’t mention Caedern. His name didn’t belong here. Not in this fragile warmth.

  Kion listened with that same quiet focus. He asked small questions, not to pry, just to help her continue. And somehow, the words kept coming. Her voice didn’t lock. Not once.

  They talked about anything after that. Places in the Bronze Concord, rumors from outside the nation, far lands like the Karmith Dominion and Tir Rynhaar, the Magic Institute of Eidryn. They imagined what they’d do if they could visit. All the what-ifs the world refused them.

  By the time the noise of passing carts along the main road began to fade, Kion asked if they should head back to the inn.

  She refused gently. Brandholt felt too narrow, too pressed in. Out here, the air was cleaner. Freer. The sky bigger.

  He agreed, relief flickering behind his smile. The dried blood on his sleeve still marked him. A quiet proof of the chase he’d endured for her sake. It made something ache in her chest, something like belief.

  She never thought she’d ever spend a night under open air. Her mind protested, whispered of danger, of exposure. But Kion coaxed her fears back into calm. Promised they’d wake before any threat could near, that his barrier would hold even in sleep.

  So she accepted the green liquid he offered and closed her eyes.

  A lot had happened today. Too much. But she was still here. And so was he.

  She thanked the stars in silence. For Kion’s faith, for the Lantern of the Lost that had led them together, for whatever small mercy had let them find each other. For tonight. For whatever reason kept him close. She wouldn’t question it.

  They were together. That was what mattered.

  And the world, just for now, felt bearable.

  She thanked the stars. Once. Twice.

  Maybe if she kept doing it, the feeling would stay.