The moment she returned to her room, Writ never left again that day. She stilled every time footsteps passed beyond her door. Occasionally, she checked the window, just to be sure.
Hours passed, and no one followed her back to the inn.
Black Quill had actually let her go without strings attached. That should’ve been a good sign. The hospitality they’d shown her so far might be genuine, or at least had a higher chance of being so.
She closed the book she’d been reading and stretched, her body aching from stillness. Her feet carried her to the window again, almost automatically, checking the street below.
Kion was there, framed by sunset, his outline gilded in gold. He smiled and raised a hand, that small flick of fingers that had somehow become his ritual. She couldn’t help but smile back.
He slipped through the vent a minute later, asking if she was fine with a different dinner. When she said she’d try, he only grinned and placed his lunchbox on the desk. A meat pie, still warm.
It was acceptable. Surprisingly so. She’d eaten sandwiches for lunch, and they’d stayed down. The curse of the broth-bread-water trinity was finally broken. She was glad she could eat what Kion offered again without nausea clawing at her throat.
Dinner with Kion was quiet warmth, as always. He seemed almost relieved to see her eating, and that somehow felt... strange. Was that what people meant by butterflies?
After they finished, he shifted into his human form.
She’d asked about the appeal. He’d shaken his head, no updates. Only that a large meeting for his team had been postponed because the other party had a “sudden, urgent business.” He didn’t even know if it was related.
She didn’t know what to do with that.
She didn’t know whether knowing something was moving behind the scenes felt better than knowing nothing at all. It still filled her with dread, but perhaps not as much as complete uncertainty.
Truthfully, she thought she was doing fine. It was bearable for a grade four mission. She could still handle this. She hoped it would stay that way.
Then they talked about their day. His team digging through dead intel buried beneath mountains of dust, unearthing old noble gossip instead of real leads. Her wandering the city, through familiar-yet-foreign halls, pausing at the door of Black Quill, the one that had nearly caught him alive.
He winced, she smiled faintly. The quiet between them turned companionable.
When the talk dwindled, Writ picked up a glossy catalog from the desk, Eidryn’s seasonal release. They went through the pages together, debating each invention. How useful a portable water sprayer could be, who would need an alarm that ran away after the first snooze, or a table that glowed in the dark.
Idle chatter. Laughter. The closest thing to an ordinary life she’d ever had.
Near the end, Kion paused over a simple parchment card embossed with a cake and tiny sparkles. She was about to turn the page when he tapped the corner.
“Do you... celebrate birthdays?” he asked lightly, a little too lightly.
She blinked at him for a beat before answering, tone flat, matter-of-fact, “no birthdays. Just a cohort update. Mine on January first.”
“Oh.”
A single syllable. The smile he attempted never reached his eyes.
“Why?” she asked, slow to notice the shift.
“No reason,” too fast. He flipped the page. Let it drop.
He didn’t seem to think about it again.
But she did.
Birthday.
Treshfold punished anyone who tried to claim one. A forbidden thing. Personal, specific, human. But Caustic had said life outside wasn’t meant to be worse. Maybe... maybe it was allowed now.
And maybe... she could have one. Maybe she could share it. With Kion.
She almost let herself believe it. Maybe that was how Nine had been pulled into the rhythm of civilian life. Warmth dragging you under like a current that never returned you to where you belonged.
She parted her lips to ask when his birthday was.
A knock cut the moment in half.
Both their heads snapped toward the door. The warmth froze.
“Room inspection,” a familiar voice called through the wood.
Caedern.
“Hide,” Writ whispered.
Kion nodded once. The catalog flew back to the desk. His glamor shimmered away. In the next blink, he was gone. Vanished into a thin shadow pressed flat against the wall.
“Three seconds before I break this door,” Caedern’s voice came again, calm but clipped.
Writ’s fingers tightened on the desk. She drew one shallow breath.
“Two.”
She dashed to the door, pulse spiked. She forced her face neutral, mask in place, and opened it.
The corridor was empty except for him. No smirk, no teasing glint. Only cold, flat authority that chilled her spine.
His eyes flicked to the doorwatch glyph beside the frame. Writ moved instinctively, disrupting it before it could record the intrusion. The hiss of its dampening sounded too loud in the silence. She stepped aside.
Caedern entered, closed the door, locked it.
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“Stand in the middle,” he ordered.
She obeyed. Crossing to the center, planting herself beside the bed, hands loose at her sides, telling herself it would be fine. Room inspections happened all the time in Treshfold. She hadn’t slacked their standards, not too much.
Unless... he wasn’t here to check compliance at all, but for something else.
He strode to the window first, opened it wide, ran his hand along the sill and frame, then shut it again.
“Ever brought anyone here?”
“Never,” she answered, steady.
“Not a single one?”
“None.”
His gaze lingered on the desk. The stack of lunchboxes and forks sat neatly arranged. Kion hadn’t taken them.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said firmly.
“Two sets,” he indicated the desk with a tilt of his head.
“Lunch and dinner,” she replied evenly.
He crouched, checking under the bed, then opened the wardrobe. Everything was neat, minimal. He searched the bathroom next, reemerging with a glyph in hand.
Its faint pulse brushed her skin. Clairvoyance. Probing for hidden presence. Nulling invisibility.
Her heart skipped. Her lungs held still.
The probe found nothing. Kion remained hidden.
Relief bloomed silently in her chest. She exhaled slow, careful not to let it show.
Caedern turned back toward her, stepping close until his boots nearly touched hers.
“Who did you talk to?”
“No one,” she said, “myself, perhaps. Sometimes I read aloud.”
“What were you reading?”
“Eidryn’s catalogue. It’s on the desk.”
He glanced at it, then back to her, “so, no one.”
“None,” she repeated, “I have no one to bring.”
The silence stretched taut. Then, quietly.
“Your verdict has come.”
The air thinned. Fear tightened, quiet but certain.
“I can cancel it,” he said, “if you want me to.”
“The conditions?”
He tilted his head, “switch to me. Leave Tiran. Serve Judge instead.”
Something in her chest went still. A door closing.
Writ asked, a small tremor betraying her, “have you told Harbinger Tiran about this?”
He answered calmly, “I haven’t. But I can... put in the words to make it happen, if you accept.”
Her answer came clean and flat, “no. Thank you.”
“You owe me a favor.”
“I owe you an answer,” she corrected, “not a ‘yes.’ My answer is no.”
His eyes sharpened. He lifted a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up, studying her for cracks.
“Who taught you to refuse like that?”
“The one I can’t refuse is my handler’s word,” she said quietly, “if Harbringer Tiran ordered me to switch, I would.”
“Was that what your previous handler taught you? Obey every word?” Caedern's tone turned mocking, “what was his name again...?”
He hummed, exaggeratedly thoughtful. Her stomach lurched.
Don’t say it.
“Right,” he said softly, almost to himself, “Tiran forbade anyone to mention him in front of you. How precious.”
His face leaned closer, “and how weak, to still tremble over a name.”
A wince escaped her. He saw it. She crushed it down, forcing stillness, burying the claws of memory.
“What else did he teach you?” He tapped her cheek with a finger. Not with hunger, but evaluation, he said, “show me how deep your obedience runs.”
A chill coiled in her gut. She steadied her voice.
“What do you want?” she asked quietly, “if it doesn’t cross Tiran’s authority, I’ll comply. Anything within that.”
“Anything is a dangerous word,” he repeated, cruelty flashing in his eyes, “do you understand what that implies?”
The air shifted. Sharp, lethal. Killing intent.
Her hearing dulled. His voice became distant, like sound underwater.
“I’m aware,” her voice no longer sounded like hers. Her body stayed still because her mind had stepped back, walled itself away.
He reached forward, “then don’t resist.”
He pushed her onto the bed. She noted the motion, did not fight. No thought, no emotion. Only observation. His proximity wasn’t closeness. It was leverage.
Deep inside, a smaller voice whispered. Stop. Don’t. Please.
But it never reached her lips. Her throat stayed silent.
He hovered over her, hand closing around her neck. The world narrowed. Air vanished. Her lungs convulsed around a scream that never left her throat.
This wasn’t desire. It was power. Authority. Control. And he reveled in every second she stayed still for him.
She didn’t fight. Didn’t flinch. Arms slack. Legs unmoving. She only watched. Waiting for the command beneath the cruelty.
It happened in pieces. Pressure. Choke. Vision dimming at the edges.
Kion shimmered into view behind him. Silent, tense, gesturing to strike. A question.
Writ shook her head, tiny, deliberate. Don’t.
Time seemed to stretch, stars creeping into her sight.
Then.
Release.
Air crashed into her lungs in a desperate gasp. Coughs tore through the silence.
Kion vanished again, face stricken even in invisibility.
Caedern stepped back, circling the room. Another glyph swept through the air. More scanning, more control. Writ forced her breathing steady, strangling the tremor in her limbs.
“Well done,” he said at last, his smirk returning.
“Forgive the method,” he said lightly, “they told me to play the villain.”
But the satisfaction in his voice betrayed him. He liked the role too much to be acting.
She forced herself to react. To nod faintly, still gasping between words.
“You could keep silent even under that, suits your name,” he added, almost admiring, “how I envy Tiran, and the man before him, for having you this long.”
She swallowed hard, stomach still tight. His tone carried amusement and distance, but the line brushed too close to memory.
She stayed silent, pulse steadying by sheer will. Focused on breathing, not meaning.
“Tomorrow. Tiran’s office. Oh-eight-hundred.”
“Yes,” she rasped.
He started toward the door. The soft click of his boots echoed. Then, mid-step, he paused.
“And your debt, consider it called,” he said quietly, “nothing personal. Merely duty. Acknowledge it.”
Her spine straightened despite the pain in her ribs. Her tone was steady, her eyes unwavering, “acknowledged.”
He nodded. The door clicked shut behind him.
She listened. His footsteps receding. Only when they faded completely did she rush to the window, parting the curtain just enough to peek.
He was walking casually through the crowd, unbothered, as if he hadn’t just broken into her room and dragged ghosts from her grave.
His head turned, gaze lifting toward her window, like he’d expected it. She snapped the curtain closed.
Kion reappeared, translucent, whispering, “I’ll check.”
He flew through the vent. She waited, heart pounding until every second felt like forever.
“He’s gone,” he said at last.
The strength drained out of her. She sank to the floor. Tension bled from her limbs, chest tight with aftershock, breathing carefully as if to convince her body the danger had passed.
She took one long breath.
Then nausea struck.
She stumbled to the bathroom and dropped beside the closet, vomiting up everything. The pie, the air, the remnants of calm.
Kion landed softly, shifting to human form. He fetched a glass of water and a towel before kneeling beside her.
“S-sorry,” she whispered hoarsely between gags, “Pie... wasted.”
He slowly shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said softly, “you matter.”
When she stopped retching, he offered both the glass and the towel. She took the water first, sipping carefully, testing for nausea.
When the glass emptied, she took the towel and covered her face. Dread seeped in.
The room stank. Vomit clung to her clothes. Kion had seen, everything. The humiliation, the loss of control, her weakness. Would he be disgusted?
“I’ll get you clean clothes,” he said quietly. He stepped back, moving only when she nodded. She heard the wardrobe open, his quick return, clean shirt in hand.
She began unbuttoning the soiled shirt without comment.
Kion looked away at once and set the folded garments beside her.
“I’ll wait outside,” he murmured, “not leaving. Just outside. Take your time.”
The door closed.
She dragged herself to the mirror and stared. The reflection looked empty. Barely hers.
Disgusting.
She turned on the tap and splashed water onto her face.
The feeling clung.
Again. And again.
Dirty. Worthless. Trash.
Kion’s knock broke her thought. She stilled.
“It’s what they made you believe,” Kion’s voice came through, muffled but steady, “not what you are. You’re safe now. I’m here. Waiting. Take as long as you need.”
Her eyes fixed on the sink, on the stream of water swirling down the drain.
She splashed again, slower this time.
The cold water melted the feeling a little.
Again, gentler now. Feeling every brush of her fingers against her skin. Washing away where Caedern’s touch had lingered.
It worked, little by little.
She did it again. And again.
Each time softer, steadier, until she could finally breathe without flinching. Until she was ready to open the door. Until the cold water stopped feeling like punishment and her skin started feeling like hers again.
Only then did she lift her head. The reflection still trembled, but she could almost stand to see it.
It felt like Writ was just... telling me what happened, and I was only recording it. Sitting with it afterward was heavy, especially with the sense of watching it unfold beside Kion.
