The fifth hour bell had just faded when they returned. The corridor was quiet, the hush of settling daylight curling against the walls.

  Kion slipped into her room first through the vent at his fairy size, satchel filled with a small stack of books.

  Writ entered from the door not long after, taking the normal path.

  He landed on the desk and set the books down one by one, each hovered in the air and swelled to full size as they touched the surface, careful not to disturb the loose papers already scattered there. Their spines were cracked with secondhand wear, covers faint with dust.

  Mostly practical things, nothing special. A Do-It-Yourself Repairs for Common Fixtures, a guide on raising winged beasts, an old gardening manual that still smelled faintly of earth. Random things to pass the time.

  Yet this time, she’d chosen them herself. No prompt from him, no careful nudge. The decision had been hers alone, and the faint swell of pride that stirred in her chest felt strange, unfamiliar. But steady.

  At the bottom of the pile, lay a slim catalogue with a glossy cover. Eidryn’s crest stamped in faint gold across the front, its new season offerings printed fresh. She noticed him glancing at her briefly as if unsure whether to mention it.

  Writ reached for the stack before he could fuss further, pulling them closer with a quiet, automatic orderliness. She shifted the manuals into a tidy line, fingers lingering on the catalogue last, her brows pinching faintly at the gleam of it.

  Kion watched her hands move. He hesitated, then said lightly, “I have something scheduled tonight. Dinner, with my coworkers. I need to come early to help prepare.”

  A deliberate pause, “is that all right?”

  Her hands stilled on the catalogue’s edge. She didn’t look up immediately.

  “I’ll be back before the ninth bell,” he added, voice low but even, “I won’t disappear.”

  The word struck something in her chest. The dread from last night stirred. How certain she’d been that he’d gone for good. That he’d vanished without a sound.

  She lingered longer this time, and he seemed to wait through the quiet.

  “But... if that unsettles you too much,” he said softly, “I can cancel. It's not urgent.”

  Writ resumed aligning the stack, smoothing the catalogue's corner with careful precision. The movement steadied her breath.

  “That’s fine,” she said. Her tone was steady, practiced, betraying none of the small effort it took to believe it, “go.”

  Relief softened his shoulders, though he didn’t step away just yet. The sunlight caught his profile through the window, haloing him in pale haze.

  “Alright,” he said softly, “I’ll be back. For sure.”

  She nodded, her gaze didn't leave the stack.

  His hand brushed her arm before he slipped back through the vent. She glanced at it once, just in time to see him disappear.

  The room felt quieter once he was gone, though not even a minute had passed.

  Her fingers lingered on the catalogue in her hands, as if its weight could steady her more than the space he’d left behind.

  Kion's POV

  Lurean's House, Brandholt City

  Kion stretched his wings as he swooped low, wind tugging through the garden. He spotted the window already half-shut. Perfect timing.

  “Fenwick! Waitt! Let me in!” he announced, far too loudly, and folded himself through the gap before the latch clicked shut.

  He landed with exaggerated flourish, dust scattering a gust across the floor.

  Fenwick yelped, dropping the window frame and knocking over the cup on the table beside it. Tea spread across the surface, “what the-? Look where you fly!"

  Kion grinned, levitated the cup, and snagged a napkin to blot the spill, “sorry. Just had to slip in before the window closed.”

  “Be civil and use the damn door for once,” Fenwick grumbled, shoving the window shut for good, “anyway, I thought you were too lovestruck to come back here.”

  Kion straightened with mock dignity, brushing off his sleeves as if dusting away the accusation, “shut up. Your comment isn't needed.”

  Fenwick was already leaning across the sill, wide-eyed, lips curling into that smug grin that made Kion want to throw something, “first, you’ve been missing our dinners. Second, Mirev swore she saw you having a library date in Kesserha. At night. Why didn’t I notice this?”

  Kion blinked, “wait. Mirev told you that?”

  From her armchair, Lurean’s voice drifted calm and knowing, “he’s been pestering her for three days straight. Poor girl cracked under the noise.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  “Traitor,” Kion muttered.

  Fenwick pounced, hands spread as if pinning Kion with evidence, “so who is she? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Is it another fairy? That pink, translucent sylph that drops by sometimes? What’s her name again? Serenity? Sereth? Serath?”

  Kion shot a glance at Lurean, silently checking if Fenwick really didn’t know. Her only response was a shrug, amusement tugging at her lips.

  Kion sighed theatrically, bowed low before her chair, “I take my words back. Your granddaughter was not too much of a traitor after all.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine,” Lurean replied, eyes glinting, “though she’s waiting for her gift, by the way.”

  Kion winced, “I’ll... ask her what she wants later.”

  “Excuse me?” Fenwick clapped his hands between them, “sir and ma’am, am I invisible here?”

  Kion let a nudge of mana brush Lurean’s sleeve. A request, quiet and deliberate. She tilted her head, one eyebrow lifting.

  “Fenwick,” she said sweetly, “could you please stop ruining what’s left of my hearing? Do me a favor and fetch Mirev. Bring her here.”

  “Me again?” he groaned, “why does everyone shove that menace on me?”

  “Your energy matches,” Kion said dryly.

  “True. Hate to admit it,” Lurean muttered. Then, with a smirk, “and for the record, I’m not accepting you as my grandson-in-law. My eardrum would not survive.”

  “Excuse me?” Fenwick pressed a hand to his chest, “as much as I love you, dear everyone’s grandmother, that is offensive. I expect an apology.”

  Both Kion and Lurean laughed.

  “Alright, alright,” she conceded, still chuckling, “dear not-loud Fenwick, would you kindly bring my lovely granddaughter here? You’ll be the hero we all need.”

  Kion laughed harder at Fenwick’s wounded expression.

  “Fine,” Fenwick huffed, already halfway out, “this humble Fenwick will depart to escort the princess. But don’t you dare vanish before dinner again, Kion. You’ll break my tender heart.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Go away.”

  They waved in unison as he stomped across the garden, his grumbling fading into the distance.

  Silence settled. Lurean smoothed the sleeve of her robe, eyes sharp now that the distraction was gone, “so. What is it you wanted to talk about?”

  Kion rubbed the back of his neck, wings twitching, “can you make something... that can relay a signal? Doesn’t have to be fancy, just simple, reliable. Doesn’t need voice or projection. A pulse, or maybe a glow. And it has to be small. Portable.”

  Her gaze narrowed, “like a relay node?”

  “Yes, but...,” His throat tightened, “not that big. And not something that needs constant maintenance.”

  “You and your ridiculous requests,” she muttered, leaning back, “have I mentioned I’m retired?”

  “of course I know. I threw your farewell party," he grinned despite the weight in his chest, "but I don’t have anyone else I can trust with this.”

  Her amusement dimmed, “tell me how you want to use it. What’s the aim?”

  “Ummm...,” he stalled.

  Her eyes caught his, “this is about the quiet shadow, isn’t it?”

  Heat crawled up his neck, “...yes.”

  Her expression softened, almost imperceptibly. Then she flicked her fingers, weaving a tight soundproof barrier around them. The hum sealed the world away.

  “Tell me the whole story,” she said, voice low, “why her. How you got close. We have an hour before Fenwick and Mirev barge back in. Use it.”

  His stomach lurched, “I... I can’t.”

  “Then I won’t make it.”

  “What? No. Please, Lurean. You’re the only one who can help. I’ll pay you, bribe you-”

  “Bribe me with your story,” she said simply, “everything. I won’t tell a soul.”

  He hesitated. The weight in his chest clawed at him, “...I might have crossed the line.”

  “Doesn’t matter. At my age, I only live for juicy gossip. Feed me. Then I’ll see about your device. I won’t judge.”

  Her gaze held him steady until the words spilled free.

  He told her about the first meeting in the Echoing Hollow. The second, in Kesherra, where he tagged her with magic.

  How the tether now let him feel her location, her fear, her fragile edges.

  How it started as sabotage. Delaying her mission, slipping information to Glitterstorm, buying time for Bronze.

  But somewhere in the weaving of lies, he’d entangled himself. He’d made her lean on him, and leaned too far in return. He wanted to free her, even if it tore his chest apart.

  Not everything he confessed.

  He didn’t explain what the tether was truly for. Two soulmates bound permanent.

  Nor that a solo tether corrodes the mind. That was too deep, too dangerous. Lurean didn’t need that truth.

  Her eyes softened, brightened, blurred with wetness as she listened.

  Until the words reached last night.

  How Writ had begged him not to disappear.

  How she said she’d rather end herself than push through alone.

  How he’d nearly been too late.

  How he might have felt her last breath cave into his ribs.

  His voice cracked, “that’s why I need you to make it, Lurean. Something. Anything. I can’t... I can’t feel that again. I need her to know I’ll come back. Even if I’m late. That waiting for me isn’t in vain.”

  He paused, breath shuddering.

  “And I need to know she’s alright,” he whispered, “that she can hold on. That I don’t have to tear myself from every duty, every time she stumbles. That she can still manage enough to wait.”

  He swallowed, “please?”

  For a moment, only the faint hum of the barrier filled the space. Then Lurean sighed, her face creasing with something softer than pity.

  “You all told me never to get involved with shadows, much less the collared ones. Too dangerous,” she murmured, “and yet here you are.”

  Kion winced, “it is dangerous. She slammed a book at me once. Just because I startled her. My barrier nearly cracked. ”

  Lurean chuckled, the sound warm, “good thing you survived.”

  “So pleaaase?” he pushed, childish, desperate.

  Her lips quirked, “alright. I’ll try. Your story was worth the bribe.”

  A grin broke across his face, “you’re the best!” He lifted into the air and circled her chair like a giddy fly.

  “Don’t tell a soul, though! If Veska hears, or Mirev-”

  “Or Fenwick?” she teased.

  “Yes, him too!” He clutched his hair, “I’d never hear the end of it.”

  Her laugh filled the sealed room, “your secret’s safe. I promised.”

  “You’re the besssst,” he said, nearly crashing into her chair.

  Her gaze lingered on him, more thoughtful now, “her collar, though. Doesn’t it bother you? The way it pulses?”

  Kion grimaced, “so loud, right? Like they’ve branded her with a beacon. ‘This person here is dangerous.’”

  “They clamp that on their own shadow...,” Lurean mused, “can't any of their mages detect it?”

  “Not sure. She's never brushed against another mage, so I can’t compare,” he paused, then added wryly, “besides, most people can’t sense a mana pulse that subtle. You’re the weird one.”

  She chuckled, “thanks for the compliment.”

  A silence stretched between them.

  Then, quieter, “is there any way you could take it off?”

  “Only if you bring her here. I’d need the collar in hand to unravel it.”

  He groaned, “that’s... impossible. The others would kill me before she set foot in your garden.”

  “And then she'd notice me instantly,” Lurean added, “she was ready to pounce last time.”

  Kion flushed, “right. That too. Why did you act so reckless, anyway?”

  “That applied to you too. Why did you tag her?” she countered smoothly.

  “...Fine. We’re the same. Alright. Understood,” he huffed a laugh.

  Lurean laughed with him, warmth settling after the storm.

  Then the door slammed open. Mirev burst in with a triumphant grin, Fenwick trailing behind her with a groan.

  Lurean let the barrier dissolve. The hum of the house returned. Kion shifted to human form, slipping easily into the motions of setting the table.

  But inside, the weight pressed different now. He found himself wishing Writ would accept whatever Lurean made. Wishing harder still that he could one day bring her here, not just to free her collar, but to let her walk through this door unafraid.

  Nobody can resist gossip when it's brewed fresh and spilled hot.