Room 203, Binding Post Inn, Brandholt City
Kion hadn’t meant to actually sleep. He only planned to rest his eyes, to let the sunlight stretch over him while he kept his tether half-focused on her.
But exhaustion had its own gravity. It dragged him down further than he intended, stripping away his pretense of wakefulness.
The windowsill was an unkind bed. His back groaned as he stirred, wings twitching with a reflexive shiver before he forced them away, weaving his glamour as he jumped down onto the floorboards. He landed stiff, a yawn catching in his throat. Afternoon light slanted across the room, later than he meant to wake. Too late, perhaps, but she was still here.
The faint trickle of water from the bathroom’s half-closed door rooted him where he stood. It was a simple, ordinary sound, yet it loosened the coil inside his chest. She hadn’t vanished. She hadn’t slipped away while he slept.
The door eased open. Damp hair framed her face, towel drawn close to her shoulders. For a single breath she froze, every muscle pulled taut, stance angled as though expecting an ambush.
His heart stumbled. Her eyes had sharpened in that way that never failed to remind him she was trained to meet threat with blade, not words. Then recognition reached her, the tether catching hold, and her guard lowered fraction by fraction.
“You’re awake,” she said. The relief was buried, hidden under a thin sheet of accusation.
Kion raised both hands, guilty smile tugging his lips, “sorry for startling you. Should’ve switched to human when you're around. I felt like another book was about to fly at my head.”
That tugged a quiet chuckle from her, low and reluctant. A small smile curved her mouth as she rubbed the towel over her hair, repeating the motion again and again. He caught himself staring, a trace of adoration bleeding through before he tore his gaze aside.
She disappeared back into the bathroom to hang the towel, then called over her shoulder, “lunch?”
His answer came too quick, too bright, “I was just about to ask you! I’m starving. How about we eat out? There’s a place I’ve been wanting to try.”
She returned to the mirror, wig in hand, door left open this time, “there’s a place in Brandholt you’ve never tried?”
“We’ll probably have better luck at odd hours like this. Mealtime, they’re always packed,” he leaned against the frame with practiced ease, though his chest beat faster at how comfortably she spoke to him, “not surprising. A tavern that’s been around since the old kingdom still pulls half the city in.”
Her hands slowed. The words caught her like a hook, “wouldn’t that be... dangerous, then?”
The question layered itself. Danger from Accord’s eyes, yes, but also from the tavern itself. A place that had survived kingdoms carried memories in its walls, and memories meant watchful eyes, long-engrained habits of listening.
He waved it off lightly, though he understood her meaning, “I’ll cloak us. No one who matters will notice.”
She only nodded and went on with her preparation, didn’t argue further. He let himself watch her quietly, softer than he meant to. She didn’t protest his gaze.
At last she stepped closer, composure neat, wig fixed in place, “ready.”
He straightened with a grin, “alright. Let’s go.”
He reached for her hand, tugged her gently toward the door, only for her to stop after two steps, tether flaring with her hesitation.
“In your human form?” Her head tilted, sharp-eyed, "this inn is Accord's."
He blinked, realization dawning. Of course. Every time before, he’d trailed beside her as a shimmer of wings and glimmered light. Never this. Not walking as a man, hand in hand. Her suspicion wasn’t unfounded.
“I promise, no one will notice,” he softened his voice, caressing the back of her hand with his thumb, “but if you’d rather, I can shift back.”
She studied him in silence, head tilting the smallest degree. Her fingers brushed his in return. The tether warmed. Trust, fragile and tentative, but trust nonetheless. It spilled through him before he could smother the smile breaking free.
“Alright,” she murmured, “make sure it’s safe.”
“Surely will.”
“And... maybe we shouldn’t hold hands. Just in case.”
“If you say so.”
He squeezed gently one last time, memorizing the shape of her palm, before letting go. Then he stepped aside, bowed in mock formality, “whenever you’re ready.”
He cast the obscuring spell with an exaggerated flourish, just enough to convince her it was done. Telling her that he's not that reckless to risk any eyes.
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Her hand tightened briefly on the handle. The tether whispered of worry creeping back in, but she turned it anyway, pushed the door wide.
They stepped into the corridor together. She halted at once, posture coiled, eyes sweeping each corner with the rigor of someone trained to survive ambushes.
“It’s alright. I’ve got us covered,” Kion laid a hand lightly against her back, “but if you’re this tense, should I just shrink now?”
She shook her head, gaze flicking once more down the hallway. Then, barely audible, “lead the way.”
He obeyed, stepping forward. Her footsteps didn’t follow immediately. She waited, counting his paces, before trailing several steps behind. He glanced back once, sadness tugging his mouth. She lifted a hand.
Don’t look back. Keep your eyes forward.
So he did.
It wasn’t what he imagined. Not an easy stroll. Not her at his side. But compared to her first days in Brandholt, when she wouldn’t leave the walls at all, it was progress.
Now she followed him in his human form. A leap, by her standards.
And he didn’t need the tether to know she was still there, several steps behind. Always behind, never walking away.
The Silent Writ's POV
The Crimson Nest, Brandholt City, Bronze Concord
The tavern smelled of roasted grain and woodsmoke, its beams dark with centuries of use. Brass lanterns swung faintly from the rafters, each dented and polished by hands long dead.
The place wasn’t grand. Just a narrow hall with carved benches, an iron hearth, and walls layered with names of families who had run the place for generations. Above the counter hung a cracked sign, its surface thick with paint, so many coats that the old crest beneath had turned into a blur of raised lines and dulled color, more felt than seen.
It wasn’t the kind of place nobles sought, nor where Accord shadows usually lingered. But it had endured. Somehow.
Kion flicked his fingers beneath the table, a shimmer barely visible before settling over them. A barrier, thin, precise, enclosing their voices, keeping the world at bay.
“So it’s been around for...? Four centuries? Five?” Writ asked, fingertips brushing the uneven groove in the tabletop. The stone was older than she was, older than Accord itself. That thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit, “is that even possible?”
“Miracle, isn’t it?” Kion leaned back, chair tilted, wings hidden but restless beneath his glamour. His tone was light, but his eyes carried something sharper, “not even the royalty survived the merge.”
Writ stilled, “isn’t their fall the reason the kingdom merged with Oathroot scholars? Because the royalty broke an oath, and the Oathroot still had all the power?”
“Same difference,” Kion said with a half-shrug, “they didn’t survive. Back then, they said the Oathroot knowledge was rare, jealously guarded. That’s why the surviving nobles sought the scholars’ aid, embedded them as officials to govern. A new nation, patched together from ruins. A safeguard so the same mistake wouldn’t happen again.”
“and that was before...,”Writ traced the rim of her cup, whispering, “...Accord... even existed,” the word weighed in her throat, sharp as glass.
She spoke louder again, “sometimes I wonder how it managed to get this big. To claim people’s lives. Both those under its wing, and those it calls oathbreakers.”
Kion’s jaw tightened, “we never knew who sat behind it all. The who, the why, the decisions that shaped it. That’s what protects them. Faceless power leaves no target.”
“Sometimes I wonder...,” her voice drifted, quieter than the crackle of firewood, “if it never existed. If I never ended up like this. What would I be? What would any of us be?”
Kion didn’t answer right away. His gaze had dropped to the grain of the wood, his hands folded tight.
“The answer’s probably too simple,” Writ added at last, forcing the words out, “I’d be dead. So would the others. That’s why they're able gather so many, mold them in silence. That’s why no one outside notices until it’s too late.”
“But you’re not dead,” Kion said softly. He finally looked up, eyes steady on hers, “you’re here. And I’ll be around. That’s what matters.”
She stared at him in silence, the weight of it stretching.
“...Why, Kion?” Her chest tightened with anxiousness, “what do you actually want?”
His laugh was quiet, almost rueful, “I told you. I’ll answer the moment you take my offer,” then he leaned forward, voice dropping low enough to be swallowed by the tavern’s hum, “for now? Safely removing your shackle seems a more pressing matter.”
His finger brushed the side of his own neck in mimicry of hers.
Writ gave the smallest nod, throat dry.
The server slid bowls of stew and fresh bread onto their table, breaking the moment. They ate in silence, but Kion’s words lingered, as stubborn as the tavern’s walls.
Too old to erase, too heavy to ignore.
The food was gone before she noticed, though she couldn’t remember the taste. Bread torn, stew cooled. Her hands had gone through the motions while her mind circled Kion’s words, looping them until even the warmth of the hearth couldn’t drown them.
Safely removing your shackle.
He’d said it like it was simple. Like freedom was something that could be reached with steady hands and patience. As if the collar was only iron, not oath and surveillance and Accord’s shadow woven into her marrow.
The tavern noise pressed soft against her, the scrape of spoons, the bark of laughter, a child calling for more muffins. Ordinary. Lives untouched.
She wondered what it would be like to belong in a place like this. To be remembered not for silence or shadow, but for pouring ale and mending benches. To outlast kings and scholars, the way these walls had.
But the thought slipped away as easily as steam from the bowl.
When they left, Kion didn’t guide her back toward the inn. Instead, he angled toward a bookstore tucked between an apothecary and a tailor, its signboard faded, its windows crowded with dust-furred tomes.
Inside, the air smelled of paper gone brittle, of ink and leather binding. Shelves leaned beneath the weight of centuries, the floor creaked with every step.
Kion gave her a small nod, the kind that meant space without words, and drifted toward the back. She lingered at the front, fingers tracing spines, eyes skimming faded titles.
He had told her to pick anything she liked, so they would have more books to pass time in her room. Simple enough.
Except she wasn’t used to choosing. She had always read whatever was at hand, whatever scraps or volumes were available. To stand before rows and rows of spines, to be told to choose what she wanted, felt strangely exposing.
Her hand hovered, uncertain. Which one was right? Which one wouldn’t disappoint?
She glanced toward the back, assuming he was hunting for something specific, and tried to quiet the heat pricking her face. He’d left her to it. Left her to decide alone.
They split naturally, each pulled by their own search. Yet his presence still tugged at her, steady in the corner of her awareness, like a shadow just out of sight.
And even here, surrounded by books, paper and parchment not yet in hand, his words still gnawed at her, bleeding into every quiet corner of her thoughts.
Safely removing your shackle.
It wasn’t hope. Not yet. But it was dangerous enough to feel like it.