Yet her mind still raced with the memory of the hand on her throat. Every step toward the Tiran's office tightens her chest.
She clamped the thought down. Quiet, orderly, hiding every single mess from the surface.
The moment she entered Tiran's waiting room, the stillness hit her like a wall. She walked and sat on her usual spot, noticing the succulent that barely held it shape, all mushy on it's pot. Just like how she felt inside.
She closed her eyes and tangled her fingers on her lap. Inhale. Exhale. Slowly. Hoping it'd help her racing heart. It didn't work.
Minutes slipped by. She tried to steady herself. Tapping her pocket, then worrying at her sleeve. Just when she thought she’d found a sliver of calm, her eyes fluttered open, drifting down to her hand.
That's the moment she noticed something was wrong.
First, the sleeve of her coat looked shorter somehow. She had no idea why. Just another thing that didn’t make sense this morning. She didn't notice that in her room, or on her walk.
The second, the blue purplish band circling both of her wrist in half circle. Right under the leather bracelet that held her ID stone in her left hand.
What?
She pressed them, it didn't hurt. She tried to clean it away, with her hand, with her cloak. It didn't budge. She had no idea what was that. It wasn't there when she washed her face this morning.
How? What happened? Why was that here?
The corridor door swung open. She stood up immediately, trying to pull the too-short sleeve of her coat to cover the mark.
Drenna walked in, still under the veil, followed along with Caustic and Pious. Caustic nodded when they crossed the room, she nodded back.
Pious knocked Tiran's office door. Muffled sound came from inside, allowing them entry. Pious was opening the door when Caustic's eyes widened, still locked on Writ.
No.
He tapped Drenna's shoulder and whispered something. Drenna whispered back, then turned to face Writ. Caustic walked to Writ, way slower than his pace when he crossed the room.
Writ forced herself to stay still, to keep her expression neutral, to not flinch.
He stopped a step in front of her. He met her eyes. She caught something flickered on his gaze. But his expression didn't shift.
“Will you raise your hand?” he asked.
No point hiding it now.
She lifted her hand to the level of her ribs, exactly as instructed. The motion drew her sleeve higher, exposing the dark bruise beneath.
Caustic’s voice softened, “when did this happen?”
Writ stared ahead, hollow. She could feel every gaze pressing into her skin, “I don’t know.”
“It’s alright,” Caustic murmured, “tell me.”
“I really don’t know.”
She wished it would end there. Wished they would simply accept it and move on. Treshfold-made got hurt all the time. Bruises were normal. No one ever looked twice. Why did they start now?
Pious and Drenna whispered something, then Pious entered Tiran's room. Caustic's eye still glued too her wrist.
Not long after, Tiran walked out, Pious flanked him. His appearance shattered every wish of her to just sweep this under the rug.
Tiran's step toward her was measured, just like how she remembered his walk. Caustic moved aside, giving space to Tiran.
Tiran held Writ's hand and brought it closer to his face. He turned it back and forth, examining everything. He did it on both of her hands. Then he lower them both and titled Writ's head up, exposing her neck.
It's over.
His jaw clenched. His grip on her chin strenghtened, then released again.
Drenna walked and tapped Tiran's shoulder and gestured him to came inside the office before he could say anything. He nodded and turned from Writ. They entered the office one by one.
She's the only one in the waiting room right now, but the pressure didn't lessen. It's pushed deeper instead, making it harder to breathe.
She stared back at the succulent, counting each of her slow breath.
Careless. She should've hide it better, pulled her cloak's sleeve lower. Should've checked herself closer. Caustic had seen it. Tiran had seen it. Now the whole room knew.
The old training clicked into place. Automatic, merciless.
Would they assume she deserved it? Would they doubt her word? Were these the kind of marks that meant trouble? For her, not the one who caused them?
Caedern's word echo in her mind.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"I was told to play the villain."
They knew it'd happen. They told him to do it. Why did they act shocked?
She hovered one hand over her neck. Was her neck as bruised as her wrist? The sore from last night's choke trembled under the collar's pulse.
But... why did the bruise appear on her wrist? She didn't remember anything happened on it for a long time. She was sure the bruises wasn't there this morning. She was sure Caedern only touched her neck yesterday, nowhere else.
Or... did she remember wrong?
Her body already took away her voice, how could she be sure that it wouldn't take her memory too?
She slowly sat back on the sofa, hugging her arms and folded low. Her stomach knots. Nausea rose again.
She keeps straining to hear muffled voices from the room, though she can’t make out words. Every tone, every pause makes her skin crawl. She was sure she heard something loud coming from the room.
She silently wished she took Kion with her. At least she wouldn't be alone, eaten by paranoia like this. Her body trembled, she forced herself still and straightened her spine. She sat rigid. Controlled her breath. Forbid herself from pacing.
But inside, every second feels like being judged through the closed door.
Could this day just end now?
Shadow Accord's POV
Tiran’s Office, Hall of Accordance, Brandholt City
The moment Pious closed the door, Tiran was already across the room.
His stride cut clean through the light of the office, a controlled storm of boots and breath. The sound of the impact, a flat, sharp crack as his palm met the table, made the lamp tremble. Caedern, seated across, didn’t flinch.
“What have you done?” Tiran’s voice was low but shaking with heat. He didn’t bother with restraint anymore.
Caedern looked up at him, one brow arching with lazy amusement.
“What? A room inspection. To confirm she hadn’t contacted anyone from the room. Exactly as agreed in the appeal.”
Next to them, Pious pulled a chair for Drenna, helping her ease into her usual seat. Her hands folded neatly, the sleeves of her dress arranged with deliberate precision, as if to remind the room that someone here still believed in order. Caustic remained standing next to the table between Tiran and Caedern. His stance stiff, cautious, ready to catch what words could no longer contain.
Tiran leaned forward, “what room inspection leaves bruises?”
Caedern tilted his head, the faintest smirk curling, “oh? You all made that ruckus just because of that?”
The laugh he let out was short, dry, and it made Tiran’s jaw tighten. The next second, Tiran’s hand shot out, fingers closing around Caedern’s tie.
“Answer me.”
Caedern’s tone stayed maddeningly calm, “I’ve done nothing. Why do you all immediately blame me? You’re not usually this dramatic,” he gestured loosely, the corner of his tie slipping from Tiran’s grip, “bruises happen every time.”
Drenna’s voice slid between them, quiet but firm, “it wasn’t there yesterday afternoon. My Ink passed by her in the corridor.”
Tiran’s glare didn’t waver, “snd she’s been in the inn since sundown. You’re the only one who entered her room.”
“Fine, fine,” Caedern muttered, straightening his tie with a practiced drag of his fingers, “I only startled her. Didn’t even say the unnamed man’s name, just as your absurd rule requires.”
Tiran moved around the table, slow, deliberate, “What. Have. You. Done?”
“I choked her a bit,” Caedern said, “a little shock therapy, if you will.”
Caustic followed Tiran’s orbit, silent and watchful.
“Give me a reason not to hit you,” Tiran said, stopping beside him.
Caedern rose to meet his eye, that same half-smile ghosting across his face, “she held, by the way. You should be proud.”
The sound of the hit was dull and heavy. Caedern stumbled, half-falling against the chair before catching himself. Caustic stepped forward immediately, one hand raised to block Tiran’s path.
Caedern let out a sharp breath, then, of all things, grinned, “heh. Guess I deserved that.”
“Don’t interfere, Drenna,” Tiran warned, but Drenna only sighed.
“Can’t have our poster man wounded too much,” she murmured.
Caedern straightened, brushing dust off his sleeve, “thank you, sweet Drenna.”
She leaned an elbow on the table, cheek resting in her palm, “you still need to explain what you did.”
“I’ve answered,” Caedern said, lifting both hands in a mock shrug, “room inspection. Choke. That’s all.”
“That doesn’t explain her bruises.”
He steadied his stance, “wish I’d known she bruised easily. I’d have held back.”
Tiran’s arm twitched upward again, and Caustic blocked him once more. The air between them buzzed.
“Why did you tie her up?” Tiran said.
Caedern blinked, “what? I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
Drenna’s tone cut through, “Caustic.”
“Purple rings along both wrists,” Caustic said, “abrasions too. Not there yesterday.”
“That’s not me,” Caedern shot back.
Tiran’s voice sharpened, “you’re implying someone else could do that to her? That she wouldn’t fight back?”
Tiran held his stare.
The silence stretched, taut as wire. Caedern’s jaw tightening, Tiran daring him to deny it again.
Caedern shoved Caustic’s arm aside and took a step toward the door, “I’ll just check it myself.”
Tiran’s hand clamped on his shoulder, “I’m not letting you meet her.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Caedern snapped, “how can I confirm you’re not saying nonsense? And we have a session scheduled for her. Signed by the Head himself. You can’t prevent me from seeing her.”
“I don’t care,” Tiran said, voice low and lethal, “if not for your ‘Tiran’s too biased’ nonsense, I wouldn’t have let you near her in the first place.”
Caedern’s laugh was short and scornful, “what then? You’ll let this all stall because you’re too fucking obsessed with your pawn?”
Tiran seized his collar again, this time both fists, but Caustic caught his wrist. Tiran exhaled sharply and released him, pacing back a step.
“We do a physical examination first,” Drenna said.
Tiran’s head snapped toward her, “who’ll do it?”
She gestured with a thumb over her shoulder, “Pious will.”
Caedern scoffed, “so you can fake the evidence? No.”
“Call Zyra,” Drenna said, voice steady, “she can act as your witness. You’re not meeting Writ for now.”
His tone turned sharp, “so you’ve decided I’m the perpetrator.”
Her gaze didn’t flicker, “I’m limiting access to the involved parties until the examination concludes. No one meets her until we know what happened. That’s protocol.”
The room stilled. Caedern’s eyes darted between them, calculating.
Finally, he sighed, “fine. I’ll call Zyra.”
He walked to his desk and pulled out his slate, the thin glass lighting beneath his fingertips as he typed.
Drenna turned slightly toward Caustic, “tell Noetic to go to the inn and confirm whether Writ had any other guests between her return yesterday and now. Then come here. Bring the separator curtain.”
“You can use my relay node,” Tiran said, pointing toward the corner of the room.
Caustic nodded once, “understood.”
He walked over, the steady click of keys filling the silence that followed.
“We’ll delay the briefing until this is cleared,” Drenna added, “Pious, inform Writ about the change of plan.”
“Roger that,” Pious gave a small nod and slipped out of the room.
“Sit down, Caedern,” Drenna said, “same for you, Tiran. Both of you are too agitated.”
Tiran’s stare lingered on Caedern, hard, wordless, before he returned to his desk and pulled a stack of papers from the drawer beneath, pretending to review them.
Caedern ignored her entirely, still typing. His jaw was tight, his eyes sharp. Already calculating his next move.
The office settled into an uneasy quiet. The low hum of the relay node, the faint tap of slates, the soft rasp of turning pages. Beneath it all lingered the sense that something irreversible had already begun.
Behind the thin shimmer of her veil, Drenna exhaled slowly and pressed her fingertips to her temple.
This should have been concluded already. A clean test, a finished assessment. Not something dragged out past its purpose.
But now, because two men refused to yield and the lead let the judge’s word sway the course, it had become anything but.
Anyway.