When Tiran flipped the page, the sound was softer, almost gentle. Somehow, that made Writ’s pulse spike harder. The Veiled inclined her head, just enough to acknowledge the gesture.

  The session marched onward. Unyielding, ready to draw blood. Each beat another test of the mask Writ had built, one she hoped would not crumble.

  Caedern leaned back slightly, “what do you think will happen after this?”

  A quiet pause stretched across the table. Writ’s eyes didn’t waver; her voice was measured.

  “…More scrutiny. Beyond that, the path is not mine to command.”

  Caedern arched an eyebrow. “Guess it. Take your time.”

  The Veiled’s blacked gaze lingered for a beat longer than necessary, as if weighing her next move.

  She inhaled slowly, letting the weight of the room settle in. Her mind traced procedure, precedent, and possible consequences. The seconds stretched as she evaluated.

  “The Accord will review the report, and corrections will be applied where necessary.”

  Caedern’s gaze sharpened, “the corrections, what do you think they’ll be? For all three subjects you've questioned, and yourself?”

  Writ’s chest rose and fell slowly. She kept her expression neutral, but behind the mask her thoughts flickered like candlelight. She should stay calm. Should not give them any reason to think she swayed. Should not hint at attachment. Should not give them leverage.

  “Predictably procedural,” she said, her voice neutral, “possibly correction cycles, confinement, or reassignment. Myself included.”

  A pause. She didn’t look away, though her fingers flexed slightly at her sides. She knew they’d test her. They always did. Every answer she gave, they’d weigh against the report. Against the truth she carried privately.

  Caedern leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing, “let’s say you had the authority to assign measures for all three subjects you’ve reported on. What would each receive?”

  Writ’s fingers flexed at her sides, the pulse in her wrist ticking beneath the sleeve. She inhaled slowly, letting her mask settle over any flicker of emotion. Every word counted. Every hesitation would be weighed.

  “I would assign measures according to observed performance,” she began, voice even, measured, “subject one: procedural correction. Subject two: reassignment for missed objectives due to attachment. Subject three: continued observation and instruction. Myself: correction cycle for oversight noted. Each decision is based on operational fact, not preference.”

  Caedern’s lips curved into a faint, skeptical smile, “explain your reasoning. Justify these choices.”

  Writ’s gaze swept over the panel, stopping only briefly on the Veiled.

  “Subject one attempted to leak sensitive information. Corrective training and monitored access mitigate risk while acknowledging remorse. Subject two displayed attachment that compromised mission execution; reassignment and supervised deployment reduce operational risk. Subject three’s report discrepancies require full review; observation ensures procedural compliance. My own oversight merits a correction cycle to maintain accountability.”

  Her voice remained flat, but inside she weighed every phrase. Neutral. Evaluative. No pride. No overprotectiveness. No hint that she remembered the faces of those she might never see again.

  The Veiled’s head inclined slightly, “you’re willing yourself for a correction cycle.”

  “I am,” writ didn’t flinch.

  A pause. The Veiled sharpened, “why?”

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  Writ’s gaze dipped for a fraction before straightened again. “I cannot explicitly state the oversight, I can only guess at it. But I’m aware some of my wording may not have been... pleasant. That alone could affect the verdict.”

  The Veiled’s tone edged colder, “why risk even saying that, if you know it?”

  A breath passed, deliberate.

  “I was asked to bite more,” Writ said, “so I did.”

  Another glare lanced across the table toward Caedern. He received it easily, leaning back, amused.

  The Veiled’s eyes narrowed, “and you decided to bite the bait?”

  Writ kept her head high, eyes level, “yes. Permission to bite, or, perhaps, a growl. As I said before, I don’t bite the hand that feeds me.”

  A smirk split Caedern’s mouth, sharp and knowing. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dipped into mockery, “what are you, then? A dog?”

  The voice of the man she’d rather not remember surfaced in her mind. She pretended she didn’t hear it.

  Writ’s eyes stayed level, her voice flat and clipped, “all of us are. I even wear the collar.”

  The next words came quieter, almost detached, “if you ask for a growl, I give one. If you ask for a bark, woof.”

  Caustic blinked at her, a faint shake of his head betraying disbelief.

  Caedern’s grin widened, “then prove it. Be a good puppy.”

  His gaze was half expectation, half challenge. Waiting for her to recoil, to break from her own words.

  The command lodged somewhere deep, familiar in a way she wished they weren’t.

  She didn’t flinch. Her body remembered the cue even if her mind screamed against it.

  The Quill woman’s eyes widened, horror breaking through her composure. Caustic’s too, sharp with disbelief. Tiran’s glance slid toward Caedern, his expression a shade darker. The Veiled only tilted her head, the fabric of her veil blurred whatever expression lay beneath.

  Writ drew a breath and lowered herself to the floor. The movement was measured, practiced, too smooth to be spontaneous. Familiar didn’t make it easier. Each inch forward scraped somewhere unseen, the way repetition wears stone smooth but never makes it hurt less. The weight pressed down on her ribs just the same, the kind that memory alone could summon. Her fingers flexed once against the floor, then stilled, as if on cue.

  Tiran’s voice cut like a blade.

  “Enough. Stop. Rise.”

  “Understood,” she rose smoothly, spine unbroken, then added the word as if sealing the command, “woof.”

  Tiran’s mouth tightened, “and stop the woof.”

  “Yes.”

  Caedern laughed, low and amused, the sound rippling through the silence. It wasn’t kind. It was a slash of satisfaction, a punctuation of control.

  The Quill woman exhaled quietly, a subtle sigh. Caustic’s stare lingered on her, unreadable. The Veiled noted something, her stroke long and unending.

  Writ’s gaze didn’t waver, but inside, the coil of defiance remained, silent and unseen.

  Tiran’s fingers tapped lightly on the edge of the table.

  “The display is noted,” his gaze flicked toward Caedern, “contain yourself.”

  Caedern’s laugh shrank to a quiet chuckle.

  “Yes, yes,” he muttered, still smirking, but the amusement was contained.

  Tiran turned slowly to the rest of the panel, “anyone else has anything to add?”

  The Veiled shifted slightly in her chair, the faint rustle of fabric the only sound. For a long moment, she said nothing, her silence heavier than words. Writ felt it pressing against her, weighing each heartbeat. Her posture didn’t falter.

  Finally, the Veiled inclined once, ever so slightly. No words. The unspoken acknowledgment was enough.

  Writ’s fingers flexed briefly at her sides, almost imperceptibly. The room waited. And she waited with it, measured, prepared. The session had not yet ended, but she had survived its latest test.

  Tiran’s fingers drummed once against the edge of the table, “you’re dismissed. You will be summoned again, but the timing is not yours to know. Wait until you are called.”

  He flicked a glance toward the Veiled, who inclined her head slightly.

  “Caustic will escort you to your room and retrieve the previous checklist,” she said, flat and unyielding.

  Writ inclined her head, “understood.”

  Her pulse thrummed under the mask, aware. Every step from here mattered.

  Caustic gave a curt nod, stepping slightly closer.

  “And,” the Veiled added, “while you’re at it, destroy every single note associated with these sessions. Every page.”

  “Roger that,” Caustic replied, voice even.

  The Veiled returned her attention to Tiran.

  “You may leave,” he said.

  Writ lifted her chin, held it for a heartbeat, and allowed herself the smallest exhale. Contained, measured. She turned smoothly toward the door, each step deliberate, careful. The weight of their scrutiny clung to her shoulders, but she held her mask tight, letting nothing slip.

  Caustic fell into step behind her, silent and watchful, as the heavy-panelled room receded. Writ’s thoughts moved like shadows across the edges of her mind. Every word weighed, every gesture remembered.

  Wait. Always wait. That was her part now. But that wasn’t something she should dwell on.

  One thing was certain.

  She had answered. She had bent. She had obeyed.

  But she had not broken.

  Not here.

  Not yet.