Room 203, Binding Post Inn, Brandholt City
He slipped through Writ’s window vent with practiced ease.
At this point, it was his official entry. Familiar, almost ritual.
The glide of movement, the faint brush of air, the momentary shadow across her room.
Writ was lying on the bed, mumbling something under her breath. One hand curled tight around a sheet of paper as though it might float away if she let go.
“I’m back!” Kion announced brightly, the cheer deliberately casual.
Her head lifted slowly, her eyes catching his for the briefest fraction of a second. Then she nodded, a small motion, and dipped back into her mumbling.
As he let his glamor fold and shifted into human form, her voice broke through. Soft, careful, “...welcome back.”
The words froze him mid-step.
Not casual. Not thoughtless. Measured, as though she’d weighed them first.
The sudden jolt of joy almost made him slip, almost added another finger to his glamor by accident. He caught himself just in time.
His gaze swept over her. Not at the desk, back bent in tireless study, but on the bed. Shoulders softer, her body less coiled.
Practicing from comfort, not endurance. That subtle shift stirred a warmth in his chest he didn’t try to name.
Instead of answering, he tilted his head slightly so the lamplight caught. Letting a small, nearly imperceptible smile touch his lips.
Nothing exaggerated. No more words. Just presence. Gentle, acknowledging.
She hid behind her paper as though it could shield her from being seen. Shyness rolled off her, light as a breeze.
He sat at the edge of the bed, leaning on one hand so his fingers brushed the crook of her elbow.
“How’s dinner?” she asked, voice muffled through paper.
Another flicker of surprise ran through him, followed by a wave of bright excitement he barely kept down.
She shifted, deliberately setting her elbow over his hand as though to pin it, then resumed her fake mumbling like she was still memorizing.
“It’s fun,” Kion said simply, “they’re like my family here. The only reason I managed to stay so long in human community.”
The paper lowered. Her eyes found his with quiet confusion, then awe, as though she hadn’t expected that answer.
She opened her mouth, thought better of it, then shifted imperceptibly closer.
“You can join me next time if you want to,” he added, almost without thinking.
The moment the words left his mouth, his imagination betrayed him.
Mirev complaining instantly, Fenwick ducking behind a chair, Veska winding up for a three-hour lecture, and Writ, predictably, pulling out a blade the instant she saw Lurean.
Bad move. Idiot. He cursed himself silently.
Her eyes widened. The tether hummed sharp with curiosity, wary but alive.
“...or not,” he amended quickly, smiling as though it were nothing, “that’s okay too. I’m back here now, nonetheless.”
His hand slid in a gentle stroke across her elbow.
Her lips parted, caught off guard by the offer and its quick retreat, “wouldn’t that be... dangerous? Wasn’t that the same as announcing we knew each other?”
For the briefest second, he froze.
It was. But not for the reason she thought.
He exhaled softly, meeting her gaze with calm steadiness.
“You’re right. That would be risky. I just... I meant, if things were different, maybe it could be nice. But not now. Not like this. Sorry. I didn’t think before I said it.”
He shrugged faintly, a gesture light enough to be teasing, though his gaze stayed warm.
Her stare sharpened, weighing him, “are you a Glyphfire, Kion?”
His heart stalled for a beat.
Glyphfire.
The word meant something Accord-related. He knew he’d heard it, but the details slipped.
A rank? A faction? A title? His mind scrambled.
She was watching him, sharp-eyed and waiting.
Hesitation meant doubt. Doubt meant suspicion.
He forced his shoulders even, face smooth, voice soft.
“Why do you think so?” he asked lightly, tilting his head just enough to turn it into curiosity instead of defense.
Her pupils widened. Shoulders drew tight. She was measuring him, testing angles.
The tether quivered with her probing thoughts.
“You enjoyed dinner with your coworkers,” she said slowly, “That’s... unexpected. I thought dinner with other... Acc- Hall’s officials wouldn’t be fun.”
So Glyphfire was tied to officials. Something sanctioned.
“And you said they’re like a family,” she tilted her head, “that’s only allowed for Glyphfire. Or Verdict Wings. Surely not Harbingers or Peripheral. Not like I have the full picture of how the others work, though.”
Another list. More fragments. He filed them even as he tried to look unbothered.
“And,” she added quietly, “you took the Blissbane Bloom and said it was for ‘the mad scientists back home...’"
He held his breath to hide the wince. She was digging back that far?
“So you’re in contact with scientists. Which means... either Glyphfire or Verdict Wings. Again.”
Her explanation rolled over him like mist. Long, winding, but inconclusive.It told him nothing concrete.
He lifted a hand, touched his chin, and let his eyes glint with teasing play.
His wings jittered under the glamor. He wished, not for the first time, that she’d stop reading too far into every word.
“Hmm... interesting,” he murmured, leaning back slightly, “you’re connecting dots I didn’t even know existed.”
A pause.
Then a grin tugged at his lips, “I can’t confirm anything though.”
She blinked, registering, then let it go. Shoulders eased, and a faint, quiet smile ghosted her mouth.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
He reached out, ruffled her hair.
Disappointment flickered through the tether, small but sharp, softened immediately by a ripple of acceptance.
She caught his hand and held it. Contentment bled into gratitude, settling warm.
Her grip tightened as if convincing herself that it didn’t matter what he was, Glyphfire, Verdict Wing, or anything else, as long as he was here.
And that pained him.
Because she trusted what she shouldn’t. Because he couldn’t tell her.
He kept his expression warm anyway. That was the least he could do, keep it steady for her.
She tilted her head, meeting his eyes for a brief, fragile beat. Then she looked away and set the paper in his lap.
He traced the title line with his eyes, “do you want me to... read this?”
“I might need help to review it,” she said instead.
He turned his head, studied her profile a beat, then looked back down at the paper, “why?”
“The subject... was my previous teammate.”
“Mhm?”
Her voice dropped lower, “what do you know about Relay Nine mission?”
The words stilled him. The paper sagged, the air weighted.
Memory scraped sharp against him. Today’s interrogation, Mirev’s chatter, Fenwick’s offhand remark, the report he'd read too closely.
But he remembered more than he should.
Remembered her fading through the tether, the dead weight of silence after panic, his desperate pull to stop her vanishing. The moment he realized how much danger he’d tethered himself to.
“...The one with the tree demolition?” he said carefully, “and memory trap?”
Neutral. Safe. Official enough.
“Yes,” she confirmed softly, “that one.”
The way she said it made his chest constrict.
“And? Why do you need help for the report?”
“...Because I don’t know if they’ll ask me as team leader or as interrogator,” the pillow shrank under her arms, “and because I omitted things. Major things. Just like Tenzurah ruin.”
He made his voice even, steady, “didn’t you clear the ruin report just fine?”
“Only because you helped me match the story. And fulfilled your promise to keep it the same as mine.”
The words brushed a raw place inside him.
He blinked, slow, to mask it.
He hadn’t. Not to Accord.
He buried that truth deeper, where it would never slip free.
“This time,” she whispered, “I have to match with three other people. Nine months ago. Too much has happened since. I’m afraid I’ll forget our story and make a mistake,” a pulse of worry spilled through the tether, unguarded, “I can’t stumble here. Not after Junior did so well today.”
Junior.
Sparklefish’s whisper. Not a codename he’d heard in the session.
Then it's not official. Likely a nickname.
“Then... tell me what actually happened?” His voice softened, offering.
She shook her head, “that’s the thing. I need you to only know the official version. Then ask questions. Seek gaps I might’ve missed.”
He blinked at her, startled.
She had never asked him into her practice. Never allowed him so close to her work.
He felt the shift, how much of a leap this was.
“...Are you sure you want me doing this?” he asked carefully.
She stared at him, “you’re refusing?”
“No- no.” His hand twitched, defensive, “I just mean... you never asked me to be this involved. I only wonder if you’re sure it’s alright.”
Because beneath the words lived another question.
She thought he was Accord, and that he had no part in Relay Nine.
Did she really believe he wouldn’t report her for this?
Did she truly trust him with something the Accord could twist against her?
Her answer came quiet, “doesn’t matter anymore.”
“What doesn’t?” He tried to meet her gaze.
She didn’t answer. Instead, her fingers drifted across the back of his hand, tracing aimless lines.
The tether pulsed with quiet acceptance. He let the silence stand.
“Alright,” he lifted the paper, “so this is the official version?”
She nodded, “the gist.”
“Let me read it first.”
She rose, settled beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, eyes lowering to follow the page with him.
The draft opened with the scout phase. Writ moving floor by floor, careful not to touch anything. The regrouping, the briefing. Her destroying relay nodes while the others planted pods. Accompanied Verdict Wing to plant on the third floor. A hidden room. People inside.
He nodded faintly. So far, it matched Sparklefish’s account.
The trap triggered. A loop swallowed them. The pod blooming early. She wrote it as though the hidden room’s occupants had sprung the snare.
He hid his frown. That wasn’t Sparklefish’s doing. Not her skillset. Not her way.
Writ's escape. An attacker waiting. Elimination. Disarming the trap.
His throat tightened. He prayed, silently, for the migrant Sparklefish had left behind. Too brave. Too reckless. Dead for it.
Junior stirring before the trap was fully undone, helping. Writ checking the attacker's body, then the hidden room. Signs of habitation.
So the subject, Junior, was capable. Dangerous. Another name he’d have to remember.
Then the relay call. A voice spilling through too freely, codename sharp in the air. Verbatim. "Sparklefish, report?", "Sparklefish?", "The Silent Writ, you're listening, aren't you?"
Kion nearly winced. Reckless. Featherglint needed reminding.
The regroup. The demolition. The chase cold. Their return.
The text ended there, clean. He let his eyes linger longer, pretending, so she couldn’t see his mind racing.
She had omitted the argument. The moment their names slipped to Sparklefish and carried to Featherglint.
He pushed it down, locked it tight. She didn’t need his memory haunting her report.
Because what she wanted was an unbiased opinion, someone who only knew the official version.
And he wasn’t even qualified for that. He knew too much.
But he noticed other things.
The tree. Seedwake, engineered by Accord, not nature.
Floor coverage meant limits in design, but that was nine months ago. Who knew how much had advanced since?
And Verdict Wing.
Was that a group? A department?
He was grateful he hadn’t asked her before. The other terms she’d thrown out, the Glyphfire, Harbinger, Peripheral, were probably the same. Admitting ignorance of them might have undone him.
He breathed in deep. She was watching him, waiting.
“So... you want me to ask questions about this?”
“I’ll give my report for today’s session first. Don’t interrupt,” she stood, crossed to the desk, and gathered a clipboard, sheets of paper, some written, some blank, and a pen. She sat beside him, pressing the bundle into his hands.
“Here’s the draft. Not neat, but close to what I’ll recite. Use it for guidance.”
He glanced at the slanted handwriting, then at the blank sheet tucked behind.
“And that,” she added, “is for your notes. No questions until I’m done.”
“Alright.”
“Ready?”
“Whenever you are.”
She rose. Straightened. Expression locking in place. Then she spoke.
Her voice was louder, firmer, sharper than he’d ever heard it in her practice nights.
The cadence clipped, the posture rigid, eyes fixed on him without warmth. No trace of Lunlun left. Only Writ. Only the shadow Accord had molded.
It chilled him. Like stepping back into the ruin. Into that silence where he had to move around her carefully, fearing every edge.
He hadn’t followed her report session before, but already he understood the strain of it. This was harsher than any questioning session could be.
At last her words ended. The cold stare softened by a degree as she sat again, but the warmth didn’t return.
She hovered between selves, balancing on the knife-edge of Writ and Lunlun, trying not to frighten him while still holding her mask.
So he did his part. Clumsy, unsure.
He had no model for what this should be, so he treated it like peer review, like when Bronze scholars shared research papers. He dissected, asked, pressed where the seams might fray.
Veska’s warning not to get too involved whispered through his mind.
He ignored it.
What mattered was that she had asked. And he would meet her trust.
She blinked when questions caught her off-guard. Tilted her head, furrowed faintly, scribbling notes in a rush. A crease formed on her brow as she worked to answer.
They carried on until midnight. Then she called it enough. Only then did her front melt, lips tugging into a small smile.
“Thank you,” she murmured, tether curling with soft gratitude. He savored it like warmth after a long frost.
She offered then, before bed, to tell him the true version of Relay Nine. But he stopped her.
Tomorrow, he said. They had until second afternoon bell. Better to rest.
He set a vial on the desk, the safe green liquid, in case she needed sleep aid. Then excused himself to the bathroom.
When he returned, she was already asleep.
The vial empty. Her breathing deep.
He let the air ease from his chest, reverted to fairy form, and hovered down to his pillow at the bed’s corner.
He should probably follow her tomorrow. It was his day off.
He wanted to see how heavy it fell, how she walked away after it.
He could only hope his clumsy rehearsal would be enough.
One last glance at her sleeping face.
Then his eyes closed.
He wished she’d do well.
He wished he could help more.
He wished she didn’t have to do any of this at all.
Especially when the real story never makes it onto the page.
(P.S. Hope Sparklefish and Featherglint still ring a bell.)