People came and went during Writ’s wait. Each arrival broke the stillness of the corridor, yet the silence always folded itself neatly back again, as if even the air had learned obedience here.

  The first to emerge was Pious. The inner door clicked open, and Writ almost rose instinctively, halfway to her feet before the woman lifted a hand, not unkindly, to stop her.

  “No need,” Pious said. “You only stand for the three Leads in there.”

  Her tone carried that particular evenness Writ had begun to associate with the upper ranks. Clear, deliberate, never hurried. Writ froze, then nodded once.

  Pious took a step closer, not quite smiling yet, but her eyes softened in a way that made the edges of her words less sharp.

  “I'm Pious Ink,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

  Just like Kion had told her two days ago. The name slotted into place, a permission, or perhaps an invitation. Something Writ quietly stored away, though she doubted she’d ever have the right to use it aloud.

  Pious explained that the summon would be delayed for at least thirty minutes, that Writ could wait elsewhere if she preferred. There would be another examination before the briefing, she said. Clinical, like mentioning the weather.

  Writ shook her head. “I’ll stay.”

  That earned a small smile, brief and practiced, before Pious inclined her head and slipped back through the door.

  When it shut again, the hallway seemed to exhale. The conversation had lasted less than five minute, yet it lingered. The kind of exchange that left warmth where none should exist. Writ could already tell how much Pious reminded her of Caustic. Firm but not dismissive, steady but not cold. The same soft control.

  Just like when Caustic had come to her room, speaking lightly, disarming her without effort, until she realized too late how much she’d said, how easily she’d let her guard down.

  Maybe that was what the Black Quill were trained for. A warmth so measured it wrapped around its target before they even recognized it. A kindness that felt earned, and therefore impossible to resist.

  The thought left a small, dull ache beneath her ribs.

  The next to appear was a woman Writ didn’t know. Tall, with wine-red hair pinned into a chignon so precise it seemed weaponized. Her expression was carved in disapproval before her gaze even landed. Though it never truly did.

  Her robe was the same obsidian-navy as the one Caedern had lent Writ days ago. Judge division.

  The woman strode past without a glance. The faint rustle of her steps carried something heavier than authority. Disdain, maybe, or irritation at being summoned at all. She rapped once on Tiran's door, sharp and efficient, and was let in immediately.

  The sound made Writ flinch. Her eyes dropped to the table in front of her, where a half-rotted succulent sat abandoned in its pot. The leaves had caved inward, brittle with neglect. She focused on its decay until her pulse steadied, and failed.

  Why another Judge? Why now? What had she done to make this escalate?

  It couldn’t be the bruise. A mere bruise had never mattered before. No one had cared when she’d shown up marked and bloodied in the past. Not Treshfold, not Nexus, not even Tiran. None of them ever had.

  So what was this?

  Her fingers tightened around her knees. The dark band on her wrist caught the light and gleamed back at her, cruel in its stillness. It pulsed like a reminder, or a taunt.

  Resentment coiled tight in her chest. Not just for them, but for herself. For not being able to act. For not remembering. For failing something as simple as staying intact.

  The third interruption came not long after.

  A short woman approached, the Black Quill pin on her shirt catching the light. Writ recognized her, the same one from yesterday. She carried a folded fabric bundle cradled in her arms, neat and heavy.

  She noticed Writ, offered the same small smile as before.

  Writ returned it with a nod. Stiff, uncertain.

  The woman didn’t linger. Another soft knock, another immediate invitation inside. The door closed again, and quiet reclaimed the room.

  Another Judge. Another Quill. How many more? What were they preparing for?

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  Each addition made the air heavier, as though the walls themselves knew something she didn’t.

  Writ’s jaw locked. She lowered her head, fingers curling hard around Kion’s pouch, and forced air into her lungs. One count in. One count out. Again. Until her chest hurt less from panic and more from the effort of holding it down.

  Whatever they were planning, she wasn’t ready. Not when her heart still felt split open from the night before. Not when even her own memory had turned traitor.

  Behind the door, the voices grew louder. A muted thrum of conversation, steady and low, like an argument dressed in civility. It bled through the seams of the room, mixing with the soft hum of the ward above her. The ward’s pitch had changed, she realized. Subtle. Off-key.

  The sound made her skin prickle.

  How she wished she could tear the collar from her neck. Not even to escape, just to feel its weight gone.

  How she wished she’d taken Kion’s offer when she had the chance. To leave this place, these corridors, these rooms filled with quiet judgment and polite cruelty.

  Even imagining it felt dangerous. The thought alone drew dread like a blade sliding between ribs.

  Still, she pictured it. The silence of the open air, no walls pressing in, no eyes marking her every breath. What a beautiful image that was.

  And how painful, knowing it would remain only that.

  A thing she could see, but never reach.

  The latch clicked softly, and the waiting room shifted around Pious’s return. Writ lifted her gaze from the pot on the low table. Even the shriveled succulent inside seemed relieved. Not the only thing in the room pretending at patience anymore.

  “So...” Pious said, lowering herself onto the sofa beside her. Her movements were unhurried, deliberate. “Thank you for waiting. I’m going to explain what’s about to happen. If you have any questions, just cut me off and ask. Understand?”

  Writ nodded once.

  “We’re going to have a physical examination first,” Pious continued, “along with some questioning about the event last night.”

  That drew Writ’s eyes. “Why?”

  “Because,” Pious said, voice steady but without edge, “we found signs that the Judge might have done something other than what he’d been tasked with.”

  Writ blinked slowly. Her lips parted but no sound came out.

  Unfazed, Pious went on. “I’ll be conducting the examination. But there will be two other people present. Judge Zyra will observe with me, and Noetic will keep the curtain up to divide the room. It’ll give us privacy. So even if anyone passes through the corridor, they won’t see us. Noetic will stay on the other side, wearing earmuffs. She won’t see or hear anything.”

  Her tone was instructional, precise. Like reciting from a protocol she’d repeated a hundred times.

  “What do I need to do?” Writ asked.

  Pious folded her hands in her lap before answering. “We want you to undress so we can check your body, and to answer the questions we’ll ask.” She paused, the space between her words soft but deliberate. “I’ll explain what I’m doing at every step, and you have the right to refuse. You can also change your mind at any time. It’ll help us if you agree to each step, but you don’t have to.”

  The words sounded kind, so kind they hurt.

  That must be a trick. Refusal was never an option. Not really. Words like right and choice were used only to make you feel guilty when you said no.

  She told herself it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t refuse anyway. Refusal had never brought anything good.

  “Questions?” Pious asked.

  “None.”

  “Is it alright if I call Noetic in so she can set up the curtain?”

  “Yes.”

  Pious stood, smoothing her coat. “Alright,” she said quietly. “I’ll call them, then.”

  She almost turned toward the door, then stopped. Instead, she leaned down until her voice brushed against Writ’s ear.

  “Zyra is a bit... tricky. She's Caedern's favourite,” she whispered. “Don’t take what she says to heart.”

  Writ nodded again, more out of reflex than understanding. Pious gave a faint, approving smile, then peeled away and disappeared into Tiran’s office.

  Moments later, the short woman from yesterday entered. She still held the bundle of dark fabric close to her chest, and when she saw Writ, her face softened with that same easy smile.

  “We meet again,” she said, voice light.

  Writ inclined her head, cautious but polite.

  “I’m Noetic Ink,” the woman added. “Can I set up the curtain now?”

  Writ’s eyes flicked toward the folded fabric, then swept the walls for hooks or poles. Anything that could hold it. Nothing.

  “Yes,” she said finally.

  “Alright. I’ll start.”

  Noetic turned and unfurled the black cloth. It rippled once, then lifted. Its corner tugged upward as if caught by invisible fingers. The fabric pinned itself to the wall beside the corridor door without touch. Another invisible pull drew the opposite end across the room. The motion was so smooth, so soundless, that Writ almost forgot to breathe until it settled. Soft and dividing, cutting the small space neatly in half.

  It reminded her of Kion, how effortlessly his magic could lift her, keep them both from falling. She pushed the memory aside. It wouldn’t help her here.

  Noetic adjusted something in her hand, the earmuffs Pious’d mentioned. She gave the curtain a quick gesture of approval, then turned back to Writ.

  “I’ll get the others now.”

  Only after Writ nodded did Noetic move. She slipped to the curtain, tapped once on the office door, and leaned in just enough to speak to the person inside before pulling back into the waiting room.

  A few heartbeats later, footsteps sounded. Two sets, one sharp, one quieter. The curtain stirred as they stepped into Writ’s side of the room.

  “Wait outside,” Pious said as soon as they passed the curtain’s fold.

  “Understood.” Noetic nodded, slid her earmuffs into place, and slipped back behind the dark fabric, sealing herself off.

  Pious still wore that small, steady smile. The kind that stayed no matter what the situation was. But the woman behind her, Judge Zyra, looked carved from something far less forgiving.

  Zyra’s presence chilled the room more effectively than her expression ever could. She took it in with a single sweep like she was cataloging flaws rather than people. Slow, precise, dissecting. Her lips pressed together in a faint downturn, as if she’d been pulled from something more important and resented every second spent here.

  Writ met her gaze once before lowering her eyes again. The air around Zyra felt sharper than Pious’s calm warmth, colder than the warding hum threading through the room.

  Now she understood why Pious had leaned close to whisper that warning.

  Zyra didn’t need to raise her voice. The way she stood, the economy of her movements, the exactness of her stillness, pressed in on the room. Each detail tugged at old instincts Writ wished she’d buried for good. Officers who measured her worth by obedience. Instructors who corrected with precision and pain. Zyra carried that same quiet authority that made the air feel smaller.

  And just like then, Writ sat still, spine straight, hands folded tight in her lap. Waiting for instructions she already knew she wouldn’t disobey.

  After so long being treated either as a specimen worth studying or as something to pity, facing someone who thought she wasn’t worth the effort at all stung in a strangely quiet way.

  It almost felt like honesty.