Kion's POV

  Melt and Mug Cafe, Brandholt City.

  The cafe was louder than he expected. Not crowded, just alive.

  Clinking cutlery, chairs scraping, low voices weaving in and out of the hum.

  Mid-morning was supposed to be quiet, but even here, life insisted on spilling across the little tables.

  Writ sat opposite him, tucked into the same corner she had once chosen alone.

  He noticed it before she said a word. Same angle, same seat pressed against the wall, as if she instinctively sought the place least exposed.

  She held her mug of hot chocolate between both hands. Marshmallows mounded on top, melting into pale froth.

  Her eyes weren’t on him but on the spoon of solid chocolate resting in his cup, the way it softened and swirled dark ribbons as he stirred.

  A spark of awe flitted across her face before she caught it, as if she hadn’t meant to let him see.

  The sight loosened something in his chest.

  It felt... easier. Easier than before, easier than spilling truths he hadn’t meant to.

  The weight of the tether had pressed too heavy, the words clawing for release until he broke.

  Now, with her across from him, warm cup between her palms, it was quieter.

  Like the dam had cracked just enough to breathe.

  She had believed him. Believed the half-truth he’d chosen instead of the whole.

  She hadn’t pushed him out, hadn’t recoiled from the implications.

  She still followed him this morning, closer, even, one step behind instead of three.

  Still told him to stay.

  He knew what it cost her.

  Knew how she hated the collar’s weight, the Accord’s shadow, the sense of being leashed.

  And yet here she was, sipping cocoa under the tether’s hum, and it wasn’t rejection he felt from her. It was a tentative, reluctant kind of acceptance.

  The thought stirred a dangerous temptation.

  Maybe, someday, he could ask her to cast back, share the weight. Let her feel him as he felt her.

  But no. Not now.

  Not when she didn’t even know the tether’s whole effect on him.

  Not when she still thought it wasn’t his.

  Best to keep it buried. Best to savor what he was already allowed.

  “I once dined here alone,” Writ’s voice broke the quiet between them, “weeks ago. When you were at work.”

  He tilted his head, “really? How did it go?”

  “I only sat here for... fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Then Arkwyn appeared from nowhere. Sat right where you are.”

  Kion lifted his mug to hide his wince.

  He knew. He’d suggested this place, pushed for it. That was the first thing that came to his mind the moment they entered.

  Her brows knit, “he just... appeared. I never sensed him walking closer. Didn’t see him enter. Suddenly he was beside me. How?”

  Kion cleared his throat, checked the faint shimmer of his sound barrier, “well... I’d have to see him myself to even guess. Can’t conclude much from a story.”

  “I know. I’m just... tired of mysteries,” she blew across her cocoa, frown deepening, “it felt like he teleported. Without an anchor. Is that even possible?”

  “Mm. Someone attuned to spatial magic can, short distances. Or so I’ve read. Rare, though, even for magic people. Rarer still for a human.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Magic people, as in magical creatures? They exist?”

  “Yes,” he leaned back slightly, let the steam curl against his face, “though even I couldn’t list every race. Myths blur into truths. But yes, I’ve met a few. Back when I was a reckless brat.”

  “And none of them live near humans?”

  “Only the small ones. Easier to hide. Easier to blend. Most can’t handle long journeys. That’s why we settled here. Close, but apart.”

  Her gaze sharpened, “then why are you here?”

  He sipped instead of answering, let the past scrape the edge of his mind.

  Her eyes widened as realization set in.

  Guilt threaded through the tether, sharp as a stitch pulled too tight, “sorry. I forgot you’re...”

  “Banished,” he supplied with a half-smile, “marked, so even the others feel the warning.”

  It was long behind him now. A scar he had learned to live with.

  Still, he could feel her ribs ached as if the weight pressed on her instead.

  He forced his voice lighter, “it’s a thing of the past. Doesn’t sting like it used to. But I’d rather not dig it open, if you don’t mind.”

  Her shoulders sank, “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  He set the mug down, searching for a way to ease the heaviness again, “so... What did you and Arkwyn talk about?”

  Gratitude flickered across her face for the change of subject. She told him.

  About Arkwyn’s mana, about the golden thread, about contracts and reassurances and vague promises.

  He already knew.

  But hearing her repeat it, hearing her admit she’d been coaxed into walking freely again, it warmed him.

  He remembered the flutter in his stomach the night she finally stepped beyond the gate.

  She sighed at the story, “why is everyone so fond of tracking me lately? The Acc- the Hall. Him. You. Maybe.”

  He nearly choked on his last sip.

  Covered it with a laugh that came out too thin, “well... I’m not sure how to answer that.”

  Her eyes lingered, reading him too closely. Marking it as a confirmation.

  He winced inwardly.

  “Let’s order food,” he cut in quickly, “I’m starving.”

  She didn’t move right away, just studied him another beat, then gave a small nod.

  They flagged the server down.

  Kion nudged her toward alfredo pasta instead of her usual broth and bread, made it sound casual, like he didn’t care either way. He smiled at the menu, made a joke about variety, and she gave in with a blank stare.

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  While they waited, he kept the air filled with easy chatter.

  Pointed out that every mug was handmade, no two alike.

  Said the chef swore the marshmallows were imported, though he suspected it was a running joke.

  Mentioned the café rotated its dishes, “so if you like this one, you’ll have to catch it before it disappears,”

  That earned him a look. Half exasperation, half amusement.

  When the plates arrived, she twirled the pasta carefully, cautious as if testing unfamiliar ground.

  He offered another bit of trivia, how the owner once tried to make soup, failed so badly it became a house story, and quietly never put it on the menu again.

  That drew a glance from her, sharp with disbelief, softened with reluctant amusement. He only grinned into his fork.

  They ate without hurry.

  A few comments, a few shared looks.

  The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t jagged anymore. It was soft.

  A pause neither of them minded keeping.

  “Will you switch back to fairy mode, Kion?”

  The words came the moment the latch clicked and the door sealed behind them.

  “Sure.”

  He caught her hand before she could retreat, pressed it briefly to his cheek, then let the mask dissolve. The air shimmered as the human skin fell away, bone and glamour softening into what he truly was.

  Her shoulders eased instantly. He knew she preferred his human face, but he also knew she needed focus now, and he’d rather not distract her.

  This form was safer. Familiar. Something she could look at without her chest tightening.

  She sat at the desk, gave him a small nod, then stopped. Glanced back, and added, almost awkwardly, “thank you.”

  He hummed in reply, then asked lightly, “will I distract you if I sit there?”

  His chin tilted toward the desk’s edge, though he already suspected the answer.

  The report loomed, less than three hours left before she had to hand it in.

  Writ never tolerated scribbles or crossed-out words. She built her pages as if they were glass, perfect on the first pour.

  Her hesitation rippled faintly down the tether.

  He felt the sting of her reluctance, the fear of offending him, even before she whispered, “...yes.”

  He softened his voice, “don’t feel bad about saying no. You’re not comfortable, it’s fine. Just say it.”

  He plucked a book from the table, floated it across the room, and landed with it on the bed, “no offense taken, truly. It’s okay to set your preference.”

  That earned him a fleeting glance. Her lips curving just slightly, “thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He grinned. She smiled back, but only for a heartbeat. The moment she faced the desk again, the smile slipped like a veil.

  Kion stretched across the bed, book in hand. Bestiary of the High Skies.

  He almost chuckled. Of all things, she’d chosen this one. Half-hidden yesterday behind towers of dry manuals.

  He remembered her fingers brushing the spine, the faint furrow in her brow. How her eyes flicked to him for approval, then away again, too nervous to linger.

  As if choosing the 'wrong' book might betray something she wasn’t ready to share.

  He’d pretended not to notice, busying himself in the back of the shop.

  She deserved that freedom.

  Her choice, unshadowed by him.

  And besides, even Euri, that gruff man so proud of his beard, kept a romance novel tucked under a fake cover of thick, serious tomes. He read it whenever he could steal a moment.

  Kion never judged Euri’s taste.

  He wasn’t about to start judging anyone’s choices now.

  He cracked the bestiary open now, not reading, only letting the pages rustle. The scent of ink and paper curled faint in the air, almost enough to cover the steady scratch of her pen.

  She’d begun the ritual he knew too well. Spine straight, pen precise, every line a mask.

  Lunlun covered away, brick by brick, until only the Accord’s careful construct remained.

  He hated it.

  The tether dulled each time, as though she wrapped her half in cloth. The warmth he’d felt at the café ebbed to a muted hum.

  Necessary, yes. Survival required the mask.

  But it still felt like losing her to them, piece by piece.

  So he did what he could.

  Pretended to read, pretended not to notice, gave her the space to build her walls without pressure from him.

  The minutes stretched.

  Pen strokes, the soft rasp of paper turning, the faint creak of her chair.

  He marked every sound as if they were proof she was still here, still safe.

  Then the pen stilled. The quiet broke with her low murmurs.

  Reciting lines, rehearsing answers, voice so soft he almost had to strain to catch it.

  He almost spoke, almost broke in with some reassurance. The words pressed to the back of his throat.

  But he bit them down, knowing interruption would only unravel her rhythm.

  Instead he watched her lift a slip of paper, his own handwriting staring back. The notes he’d written last night when she’d let him sit through her practice.

  She read it once, then again, lips moving in tandem.

  Something in his chest pulled tight.

  At least that much helped.

  At least she kept it.

  He leaned back into the bed, book balanced loosely in the air, and let the silence swallow him again.

  Only his thoughts remained, looping quiet prayers.

  That today would be gentle.

  That the summons wouldn’t twist back into another cage, another panic like Relay Nine.

  That he wouldn’t have to yank the tether until it burned and beg the stars to let her breathe.

  Well, not this time.

  He’d be inside with her. He’d stand between her and whatever the Accord demanded.

  Still, he prayed. To the stars smothered by daylight, to any thread of luck still watching.

  Guide her way.

  Keep her whole.

  Let them see only what she shows, and let me keep the rest.

  She left the bathroom door open as she adjusted the wig, dark strands settling neatly into their part.

  From where he floated against the headboard, he caught the angle of her profile in the mirror.

  Expression flat, movements precise. Every wall shut.

  He kept his eyes on the book in front of him, pretending to study the sketch of a beast’s nest he’d never build.

  The ink blurred anyway. His attention wasn’t in the pages, it was in the silence between them, the silence she filled with nothing but the scrape of a drawer shutting and the click of a clasp fastening into place.

  She emerged dressed the way she always did for the Hall.

  Not armor for the field, not the softness he knew, but that narrow office-worker guise the summons demanded. Even the bathroom was left neat as if her presence had never touched it.

  He hated how clean her absence always was.

  She crossed to the desk, tidying what he hadn’t touched.

  Papers into two stacks. Scribbles hidden in the drawer. Report clipped square to the board.

  Each motion stripped of personality, trimmed down to function.

  And then she came closer. Each step measured, like she was practicing the walk she’d use once outside.

  He looked up from the book at last.

  “I’ll be going,” she said.

  He pushed off the bed and rose into the air, arms flung wide in an exaggerated cheer, “good luck!”

  His voice came out lighter than he felt, and he forced the corners of his mouth upward to sell it.

  She only nodded.

  Her face stayed flat, the edges too sharp. The absence of Lunlun’s small smile hit harder than it should.

  He’d grown used to it, greedy for it, and the contrast was painful when she locked it away.

  She turned to the door, checking the glyph on the frame. Always precise, never careless.

  Before leaving she glanced back once, meeting his gaze. He wiggled his fingers in a lazy little wave, as if that could coax even a flicker of warmth from her mask.

  It didn't.

  The door closed. The lock clicked.

  He stayed very still until her faint footsteps faded down the hall.

  Only then did he close the book, letting it drift back to the desk with a slow tug of air.

  Invisibility folded over him as he slipped through the narrow vent and perched on the windowsill outside.

  From there he waited, listening, until she reappeared below, walking out of the inn’s entrance with that same controlled cadence.

  Maybe he could help her today.

  A quiet shimmer of illusion to ease her stride, to blur hesitation if it bled through.

  Or maybe he shouldn’t.

  Maybe it would set the bar too high, make her handlers expect steadiness she couldn’t always summon, and he might not be here the next time.

  Or worse.

  Maybe some hesitations were intentional. A weapon in disguise.

  If he masked those, he’d undo her.

  He drummed his fingers once against the sill, then let go.

  Either way, if the summons cracked her, if she faltered in a way that spiraled beyond repair, he’d step in.

  He couldn’t not.

  It was her own mission she was reporting on. Her old team, the ones she’d once tried to protect.

  That was a tender wound to press, and Accord would press it hard.

  He slid down from the sill and lifted into the air, shadowing her from above as she made her way toward the Hall.

  Her steps were steady, but he felt the undercurrent through the tether. The way she managed her panic, pulled her breath into rhythm until it sounded like control.

  Still, the flatness of her mask lingered in him like a bruise.

  It stung more than he wanted to admit.

  He told himself it was only armor. Beneath it, she was still his Lunlun.

  And there she walked, every step claimed by them.

  Kion shadowed her anyway, hating the truth he could not change.

  Until the summons ended, she belonged to someone else.