He offered to turn the lamp on. She refused. He didn’t argue, only smiled with that small, knowing curve of lips, murmured “Alright,” and moved on to another topic as if dimness was simply another shared preference between them.
He didn’t ask about the untouched bowl on her desk either. His glance caught it, lingered, but slid away with practiced ease. The only thing he asked was whether she wanted more food. She said yes, quietly, and he busied himself swapping the tray, another safe combination of bread, water, and broth taking the place of the old one.
Plain broth this time. No hidden pieces, nothing to surprise her.
She finished it without hesitation, and when she did, Kion’s grin bloomed brighter, unreasonably proud. As if her empty bowl was proof of recovery, or trust.
He filled the stillness that followed with words. Stories. Half-truths dressed as mundane events.
He told her how he’d accidentally suggested an idea during a morning meeting and somehow ended up in charge because of it. How the team spent the entire day digging through dusty archives, pages and parchments older than anyone could name. How they found almost nothing, except the promise of more dust and another day of wasted effort.
He made it sound trivial, ordinary. And that was what felt most strange.
Listening to him felt like eavesdropping on another world, the normal life the Hall of Accordance projected to hide the Shadow Accord beneath it. A world where people complained about dust and deadlines instead of directives and death.
His voice threaded through the dim like warmth leaking from the street outside, through the window she’d stared at hours ago.
She listened. Intently. Quietly.
Her gaze kept drifting to his hands, the way they moved when he spoke, sketching invisible shapes in the air. The flicker of light in his eyes whenever he mentioned they , teammates he never named, yet clearly cherished. The ease in his posture that came from belonging somewhere.
And beneath all that warmth was a steady restraint, how he always stopped just short of detail, of honesty, of anything too close.
He could talk for hours without ever saying who he really was.
She told herself she didn’t care. That knowing him in fragments was enough. But every word that hid behind his laughter carved a hollow she didn’t know how to fill. Amazed. That he could carry so much light so effortlessly. Hurt. That he still carried it away from her.
He knew everything that mattered about her. Her triggers, her limits, her leash. Yet she knew next to nothing about him beyond what he chose to display. And still, somehow, he had built a place inside her. Quietly. Deeply. Without permission.
She told herself it didn’t matter. That was how the Accord worked. Information climbed upward, not down. The higher ranks held the full pattern. She got fragments and was expected to assemble them into obedience. That was the system. The rule. The cage.
He wouldn’t tell her even if she asked. He’d say it again, “only when we’ve left together.”
The phrase haunted her like a trick of light, both promise and impossibility.
Sometimes she believed him. Sometimes she wondered if he only said it to keep her still. Did he actually see her collar as something that could be removed? Did he truly think there would be a together beyond this? Or was he just buying her silence with hope?
Her hand tightened around the edge of the empty bowl.
Kion’s voice faltered mid-sentence. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been quiet until then.
He looked at her, just looked, and she felt the weight of it before he even spoke. A flicker of knowing crossed his eyes, and it stung more than it should have.
She asked, carefully, "something wrong?"
He smiled. Too quick. Too practiced, “not really.”
But the look that followed said otherwise, something small and pained that vanished before she could name it.
Did he read her again? He always seemed to know the shape of her thoughts before she spoke them. Could the 'attunement' really make that possible? Another question that would never find its answer.
Time slipped. The streets outside softened to quiet.
He stretched, yawned, and told her to rest. Said it with the same casual tone he used for everything, but she could hear the gentleness folded inside it.
She glanced once more through the window. At the thinning streams of people, the merchants packing their stalls, the slow rhythm of an ending day. The city moved with purpose, even in retreat. Everything had its rhythm, its closure.
She nodded. Agreed to sleep.
When he reached for the vial from his satchel, she shook her head. No sleep aid tonight. Not yet. She promised herself she’d take it if she was still awake past midnight, a bargain she didn’t have to keep.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Sleep came easily.
No dreams. No resistance. Just the slow drop into dark. Like sinking through ink, soft and soundless.
Her last sight before the room folded around her was of Kion. Small again, in his fairy form, curled on the pillow beside her. His eyes closed, his smile faint but real.
As if the stillness of the night was enough. As if peace could be something permanent, not borrowed. As if the days before, the chase, the fear, the blood, had never happened.
As if their time together could hold the world in pause. Even though both of them knew it couldn’t.
Another set of broth, bread, and water greeted her the moment she opened her eyes.
Kion’s voice met her almost at once, cheerful as always, calling “good morning” as he stepped out of the bathroom, towel in hand.
Breakfast was quiet and steady. The same pace that should have soothed her, but didn’t. Because she knew peace was only the absence of noise before the next storm.
Today, the waiting began. The 'no summon' promise had surely expired.
When she asked, Kion confirmed there’d be an appeal held today. Neither of them knew its content. He still wouldn’t say who Gale was.
One thing she was sure of, something would move today. The quiet pause would end. She didn’t know how she felt about it, only that she had no choice but to face it. To endure, as she always did. To survive it, as she’d promised.
Kion lingered too long before he left. He stalled with every excuse, a loose clasp, a missing note, one more reminder about meals, until she had to nudge him toward the window.
He laughed, sheepish, saying he couldn’t stop by at lunch. That he was trying to move his overtime up earlier today. She could only shake her head, half amused, half warmed by the insistence.
When he finally left, she opened the window wide and waved. Watched his silhouette shoot upward, small and fast, until he disappeared into the bright.
The room felt dimmer after that, though the sun kept rising.
She tried to read to pass the wait. Words refused to stay still. Her mind wandered, circling the weight pressing down her chest.
A while passed, too slow to count.
Her mind still wouldn't settle, so she decided to walk. If thought wouldn’t quiet, maybe movement would.
The eighth bell rang as she stepped out of the inn, short-sleeved and coatless. The morning warmer than usual, the air thick and heavy, still enough that even her wig barely stirred. The kind of heat that made the thought of a coat unbearable.
The city was alive, morning spilling into noise and color. Couples walking arm in arm. Children in uniforms, laughing, chased by a weary teacher. Merchants shouting prices, stalls clattering open.
Brandholt’s mornings carried a pulse of living she still couldn’t get used to. Too loud. Too careless. Too full of footsteps that didn’t care who watched. Treshfold had trained her in silence. In shadows and whispers and walls that swallowed sound. Here, the world announced itself with every breath.
She walked without aim, following the tide of strangers, wandering without thought. Until the path curved her right back before the Hall of Accordance.
Its white walls rose like judgment, smooth and immaculate. Groups of people streamed in and out as the sun climbed higher. Civilians seeking oathcraft guidance and Treshfold-trained shadows blended into one another, distinguishable only by the glances they cast at her collar.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t lower her head. Walked steadily through it's entrance.
Each ident-station blinked beneath her hand as she passed. Every door logging her presence, yet none refusing her.
She moved through corridors with her mask fixed, heart steady, gaze sharp. She's here to follow through on yesterday’s thought. Locate the Black Quill’s office. Confirm its place. Nothing more.
She had no idea what she’d say if anyone asked. Or whether lingering too long would get her flagged deeper in the system. She wasn’t even sure if she was allowed to wander the Hall unannounced. Every step thrummed with risk. Each pulse of the ward felt like a heartbeat waiting to trip. Still, no one stopped her. No alarms.
Until she reached the far end of the second floor, a corridor quieter than the rest. There, a door with a black plate gleamed faintly.
Black Quill.
Cold air seeped from the gap beneath. Sterile, metallic, and colder than it had any right to be. A darker line threaded along the tiles. Drainage slits, lots of them, subtle but deliberate.
Why would a second-story corridor need drains? There were no windows here, no chance of rain slipping through. And the ceiling showed no leak.
Kion’s story surfaced. The room in front of her was the place where the Black Quill almost got him. Their ambush, the strange blood magic, the sudden trap. Was this how they’d done it? A system hidden beneath the floor?
She crouched slightly, eyes tracing the thin gaps running the length of the hall. No answers. No logic. Only a prickling unease that told her to leave before the curiosity reached its cost.
She left the door and continued down the hall. A right turn waited ahead, but she stopped mid-step. Something was off.
The corridor ended a few paces forward, sealed by a massive potted plant whose wide leaves brushed the wall like open hands. The air shifted. Slower, thicker. The wards pulsed a warning.
Dead end, or hidden path. Neither safe.
Her instincts whispered retreat. Her curiosity whispered otherwise. Her gaze bored into the leaves one last time, willing them to spit out their secret, until footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor, drawing closer.
Her mind raced. Eyes flicked between the corridor and the dead end. Retreat or hide? Going back meant being seen. By someone with business in the Black Quill’s hall, or the Black Quill themselves. The pot could hide her if she crouched... but if the wards were traps... No. Better to look lost than hunted. No reason to risk another mark.
She steadied her breath, loosened her shoulders, and turned back just as a woman rounded the corner.
The woman was shorter than Writ, curls bouncing as she tilted her head. A stack of files, thicker than her finger, was tucked under one arm. A pin gleamed on her collar, a quill black as ink. She didn’t look surprised to find a stranger in her corridor. She stopped in front of Writ, blocking the way.
The woman smiled, polite but not soft, “can I help you?”
Writ matched her tone, “no. Just lost. Not used to Brandholt’s layout yet.”
She shifted left. The woman mirrored her. Shifted right. Blocked again.
The smile stayed fixed, “would you like to come in? We can make tea. Or juice, if you prefer. We have fresh oranges.”
“No. I’m going.”
Their eyes met, silence stretching between them, thin and sharp as wire.
Then the woman stepped aside, “go on, then. Come back anytime.”
Writ inclined her head, walked past, pace even.
She could feel the gaze following her, sharp, assessing, unnerving.
Only when the soft click of a door closing sounded behind her did she let herself exhale.
Her gut knew the truth. That woman was Treshfold-made, one of the Black Quill. And Writ had been caught red-handed, walking straight into their territory uninvited. The woman had every right to stop her. Writ didn’t know how often they let trespassers go freely, but she wasn’t about to test it. She told herself she was lucky to be walking out at all.
She’d found what she came for. Location confirmed. Invitation earned, or baited. Another fact to file away, another line on the invisible map she kept in her head.
Her steps stayed slow as she left the restricted wing, though every instinct begged her to run.
Only when the hum of wards faded into the normal clatter of voices and paper and footsteps did her lungs finally release air.
The chill on her back didn’t leave. Every reflection in the polished walls seemed a half-step behind her, watching.
Maybe she should’ve stayed in her room. Maybe she’d regret stepping this far out. Maybe this would shape the next test in ways she couldn’t control.
Or maybe not. Maybe the short woman’s offer had been genuine, like Caustic’s had sounded.
Either way, Writ knew two things for certain.
She had found the Black Quill.
And they had found her too.