Kion’s POV

  Room 203, Binding Post Inn, Brandholt City

  She had fallen asleep in his arms. Head tilted backward, weight soft and uneven against his shoulder.

  He kept adjusting his hold, careful not to let her head slip too far or wobble and wake her. Every time she twitched or breathed differently, his hand followed, steadying.

  She had refused the bed. He hadn’t pressed her.

  The memory of Caedern pinning her there was too raw, still etched into the room’s air. Even now, the sight replayed unbidden behind his eyes. The tremor in her hands, the way her voice had broken, the cold satisfaction in Caedern’s smirk.

  Rage still flickered under his ribs, restless and unwilling to die down.

  That fury carried him back to the man himself.

  Caedern Sleismann. Archjudge of the Hall of Accordance.

  Fenwick’s gathered papers had shown the image of a man venerated by the city. Clear-eyed, articulate, benevolent in every speech. A saint for the sans-Oathroot age.

  Kion had stared at those clippings in disbelief, the same disbelief he’d seen in Fenwick’s eyes when he’d explained what truly happened behind those closed doors.

  None of that public persona matched what he’d witnessed in that chamber. The venom, the precision, the pleasure in cruelty barely hidden beneath formal tone.

  He remembered Writ’s quiet, bitter warning, words that had only confirmed the dread forming in his gut.

  That unless Caedern had cases filed against him by someone higher, nothing would ever happen to him.

  The Judge knew how to bend rules without breaking them.

  He’d grumbled before he realized it, a low sound caught between anger and helplessness.

  His hand clamped over his mouth by reflex, eyes darting toward her face.

  She didn’t stir. Her breathing stayed even, shallow.

  To expose Caedern, he would need someone higher, someone whose report could not be ignored. That alone was impossible.

  And even if he could, Caedern’s careful self-control made him untouchable.

  He crossed lines only where no one could see, only when every angle of the story bent in his favor. Others would defend him because the alternative meant doubting the system itself.

  It was infuriating. Too clean, too perfect.

  Kion rubbed his temples. Maybe he should’ve just actually followed the man some day and dropped something embarrassing into his drink.

  The laxative, perhaps. But that would’ve been too kind.

  He breathed through the thought. No. There had to be a way that didn’t rely on petty vengeance.

  He thought of Tiran then, Writ’s superior.

  Caustic had said he’d fought for her. Whatever that meant.

  He remembered the office.

  Tiran’s restrained neutrality, the faint edge of hostility when Caedern lingered too long. The way he’d ordered him out, yet kept Drenna without comment.

  Not a friend, perhaps. But not nothing, either.

  And Tiran had stopped the puppy-act. That had to count for something.

  Would Tiran ever agree to let Caedern cancel her verdict in exchange for transferring her to Judge?

  If he had fought for her, didn’t that imply some measure of protection?

  Would he have sent Caedern alone if he’d known that offer would be made?

  Would he have let it happen under his authority?

  The thought didn’t fit.

  So, how much of tonight had even been sanctioned?

  How far off-script had Caedern gone?

  What had the actual verdict been meant to be?

  She had a summon in the morning. Maybe the official verdict was supposed to come then.

  Maybe tonight was meant to be an inspection, a formality, until Caedern, ever the wolf in silk robes, twisted it into a private spectacle of power.

  The threat. The choke. The relentless attempts to pry at her weakest point.

  What purpose would that serve?

  Writ had started slouching sideways, her head tipped back, exposing her neck. Kion’s gaze drifted there.

  In the low lamplight, a faint ring of bruised skin marked the edge of the metal collar. Barely visible, like a shadow trying to hide.

  He froze. Then exhaled, slow.

  He lifted her with a gentle sweep of magic, settling her to sleep on her back a few inches above the floor.

  Another pulse brightened the lamp, and he cupped a hand over her eyes to soften the glow.

  Leaning close, he saw the bruise more clearly. Shallow, already fading.

  Caedern had been deliberate. Cruel enough to hurt, careful enough to leave nothing that could be called evidence.

  No witness. No record. No mark anyone would see.

  His own pulse thundered in his ears. So that’s how he does it.

  He could almost see the report Caedern would file. Cold, measured, spotless.

  And Writ’s would be lost in between the lines. Dismissed as exhaustion, instability, or a failure to comply.

  She had suffered because the man liked to prove that he could. Because his words weighed more than the pain he inflicted.

  Kion’s throat tightened. His fingers flexed around nothing.

  He turned the lamp dim again and lowered his hand from her eyes. The silence felt heavier now.

  How could he make them see this?

  How could he get someone, anyone, to acknowledge what had been done behind closed doors?

  Who would take his side, Writ’s side?

  Caustic, maybe. The Black Quill seemed fair. Reasonable. They’d be present tomorrow. I

  If only there were something visible, undeniable. Something that demanded to be seen without Writ having to speak at all.

  His foot tapped restlessly against the floor. His mind retraced the conversation.

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  Something Caustic had said about reporting a handler. What counted as a clear violation?

  And then, the thought came. Quiet and awful.

  He went still. His stomach turned, but his mind refused to look away.

  There was something he could do.

  Something precise, almost harmless in his craft, but enough to be noticed. Enough to spark a question.

  But it would cost her.

  It would place her under closer scrutiny. Under eyes that asked questions she couldn’t safely answer.

  It might pull at memories she’d spent years learning not to touch.

  He didn’t know what lay there. Only that whatever it was, she’d buried it for a reason.

  His hands trembled. The tether pulsed faintly with her steady, unaware sleep.

  She trusted the quiet. Trusted that tomorrow would arrive as ordered.

  And if he did nothing, it would.

  She would never agree.

  She would protect the very system that hurt her. Because they trained her to obey, and she had never been allowed to want anything else.

  Would he take that risk?

  Could he justify a harm now if it meant safeguarding her later?

  Would a single flaw be enough to crack the wolf’s perfect mask?

  There was only one way to know.

  He swallowed hard.

  He would follow her tomorrow, make up some excuse for a day off, or even just a half-day, to stay close. It wouldn’t fix anything, but it might at least keep her from being left alone with Caedern again.

  That, at least, was a risk worth taking.

  If the proof didn’t catch attention, he could erase it quietly, accept his failure.

  If it worked, and she held steady through it, then maybe... just maybe, someone higher would see what he saw.

  If it hurt her too much… then he’d deal with that. Somehow.

  He’d beg forgiveness if he had to. He’d take the blame.

  He closed his eyes and breathed once, deep.

  The plan was cruel in its mercy. Gentle in its harm.

  But it would make them look. It would make the truth impossible to ignore.

  And if it wounded her trust, if it broke the fragile quiet they’d built tonight...

  He’d bear that too.

  Because some pain, he decided, was worth the risk.

  The Silent Writ’s POV

  Room 203, Binding Post Inn, Brandholt City

  Waking up to find herself hovering several inches above the floor was... an odd experience. Not unpleasant, just quietly baffling. The air cradled her weight, the faint hum of Kion’s magic lacing through it like a lullaby that hadn’t yet faded.

  Kion, perched on the windowsill in his small form, grinned at her half-awake confusion.

  “The air’s kinder to your back than the floor,” he said, tone light and careful.

  She took a slow breath and nodded.

  “Reasonable,” she murmured, voice faint from sleep.

  In truth, she couldn’t bring herself to lie down anywhere near the bed again.

  Breakfast came in quiet motions. Her sipping broth near the window while the morning light grew merciless outside. The sun rose without shame, as if it hadn’t seen what the night had done.

  She hated that. Hated how it insisted on shining, how it painted the city in gold while the taste of iron still lingered in her throat.

  Kion nibbled his cookies beside her, legs swinging idly off the sill, wings catching stray light like shards of glass. He didn’t speak much, just offered company that felt unspokenly deliberate. A barrier against the pull of silence, against the bed she refused to look at.

  Every time her eyes wandered toward it, the memory of Caedern threatened to surface. His hand, the choke, the helplessness. She flinched from even the thought, gripping the bowl tighter, grounding herself with its heat.

  She didn’t know how she’d make it to the summon. How she’d stand in that room and see him again. She didn’t want to think about it. But the clock refused to stop, the sun kept climbing. She hated both for their certainty.

  When her broth was gone and the bread reduced to crumbs, she still didn’t move. The chair felt like the only place the world wouldn’t tilt beneath her feet.

  Kion had turned human again by then. His hand settled gently on her shoulder before she could sink too deep into thought. He leaned down and wrapped his arms around her from behind, steady and warm. She froze for half a heartbeat before reaching up to hold his forearms. Her grip trembling, her breath catching.

  She felt like crying.

  She didn’t. But she clung to him as if letting go might break something she couldn’t repair.

  She didn’t urge him to leave for work that morning. Some irrational part of her feared that if he stepped out the door, the air would stop moving, the walls would fold inward, and she’d be swallowed by the quiet.

  So she stayed silent, afraid to invite that moment by naming it. Keeping the terrifying thought of him having to leave for work in quiet hush.

  It never came. She didn’t ask why.

  Instead, after she’d washed and dressed, he helped her prepare. Combing her wig straight, smoothing the stray strands, brushing lint off her coat. His touch was unhurried, reverent almost, as if every button and fold mattered. She let him. She didn’t have the energy to protest his care, nor the heart to stop it.

  When he finally drew her into another embrace, it lingered longer than before. His hand traced slow circles against her back, a silent message she didn’t have to decipher.

  He felt heavy too. She could sense it. The same reluctance sat between them like a fog neither of them dared to break.

  She wondered if it would feel easier if he accompanied her. But she knew she’d never ask. It would mark him. And she wouldn’t risk that. Not for herself. Not again.

  So she just breathed him in instead. His scent, fresh as leaves, familiar. She brushed her hands across his sleeves, memorizing the shape of him through touch. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned closer, as though understanding exactly what she was doing, and letting her.

  The bells rang seven.

  She stared at the window, held him closer. It didn't slow the creeping tension. Minutes bled past unnoticed, the world narrowing to the hollow beat of the clock.

  Dread crawled up her spine, whispering that the day had arrived whether she wanted it or not. She tried to shed Lunlun’s remnants and rebuild Silent Writ in her place. The version that could walk, speak, and be seen.

  Kion’s smile dimmed slightly when she straightened her coat. She saw it. The small falter, the way his eyes softened. He was hurting too.

  She stepped toward the door.

  “I’m going,” she said, voice steady only because she forced it to be.

  He nodded, “hope it’ll go well.”

  She returned the nod and started to close the door.

  “I’m sorry,” Kion said. Too soft, too deliberate.

  Her body froze before her mind caught up.

  The latch clicked back. The door opened again. She rushed to him and gripped his shirt, breath hitching.

  “What?”

  The word came sharper, more fragile than she expected. Fear wound tight inside her ribs.

  Why now? Why that tone? Had he had enough of her? Did last night drive him to the edge? Was he-

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said quickly, drawing her closer, one hand cradling the back of her head. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed something deeper. Regret, perhaps. Guilt, softened by tenderness, “we’ll meet again after my workhour. When you return.”

  “Really?” she whispered, clinging to the word.

  “Really,” his thumb brushed her cheek, light as breath, “now go. It’s quarter to eight. You’ll need time to prepare, won’t you?”

  He was right. And she hated that he always was.

  She still didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to step out of this small world they’d built through the night. Out there was scrutiny, cold logic, the same eyes that had already weighed her worth and found it expendable.

  Kion leaned forward, pressed his lips against her forehead. A seal, a promise, or maybe an apology she couldn’t quite name. His gaze dropped back to her, “do you want me to go with you?”

  She shook her head quickly.

  Want had nothing to do with it. That would only make it worse for him. For her. For everything.

  “Go on, then,” his hand found the edge of her wig, smoothing it one last time before letting it fall, “I believe you can do it.”

  She drew a long, shuddering breath and nodded. Then, with effort that felt monumental, she stepped out of his hold.

  The door shut behind her.

  The warmth of his hand lingered for a few heartbeats, then faded. Too quickly, like breath lost to cold air.

  And with that, she walked on.

  Back toward the scrutiny. Back to the lens that would burn her alive.