Hall of Accordance, Brandholt City.
Okay.
Alright.
Of course.
That wasn’t a report.
Kion refused to believe reports normally went that way.
No wonder she’d prepared herself all night.
No wonder she wrote draft after draft before settling on a clean copy.
No wonder she muttered lines under her breath until they sounded like incantations.
Because that wasn’t a report. It was a trial. The kind fit for a criminal.
They hadn’t reviewed her work.
They’d dissected her, piece by piece, until even breathing seemed incriminating.
Put him in her place for one single minute and he’d stumble on the first question. Probably collapse before the second.
He tugged absently at his hair. The motion calmed nothing. His fingers twitched again, restless.
He’d hated the mask she wore. The still, merciless Silent Writ.
But now? He understood. He was grateful.
That mask wasn’t pretense anymore, it was the only thing keeping her alive.
Waterproof. Soundproof. Emotion-proof. Whatever-proof.
Even with his illusion magic, he couldn’t have held steady.
His wings had already jittered, his flight crooked, brushing against the corridor wall as if he didn’t know how to steer anymore. He winced, shoulders hunched, adjusting before anyone turned to notice.
And that man... Caedern. Vile, smug.
“Be a good puppy.” As if she were less than human.
And no one stopped him.
Not before it's too late.
The thought made Kion’s jaw ache. He worried at the inside of his cheek, tasting copper faintly.
For one sharp moment he wished he’d slipped something bitter into the man’s cup. Poison. Quick, quiet. Deserved.
Too late now. Maybe.
He flexed his hands, then shoved them into his pockets to stop fidgeting.
He tried to shake it off, imagined borrowing Seraithe’s wind and blowing the bastard across the sea. A private storm, just for him.
The picture almost made him laugh.
Almost.
The fury stayed.
They reached the inn. Writ and Caustic went in first. Kion trailed after, adjusting his cuffs as though that would make him look less out of place. His wing brushed the vent on the way in, clumsy again.
Caustic walked too close to her. Too steady. Too silent.
Kion measured him, step for step.
Was he another one like Caedern? Another predator dressed as authority?
He prayed not.
Because if he was... then good.
There would be no witnesses in her room.
And Kion would not hesitate.
The Silent Writ's POV
Room 203, Binding Post Inn, Brandholt City
“Is it okay if I close the door?” Caustic asked.
Writ tilted her head at him, “it’s okay. Why not?”
He shrugged, as if the gesture cost him nothing, “this is your place. Some people aren’t... comfortable with that. I’m asking just in case.”
She gave a short nod and turned away, pulling off her boots one by one. The soles scraped faintly on the floor as she set them aside. Her attention shifted to the desk. She opened the drawer, sifting through the muddle of folded notes and scribbled drafts, hunting for the exact checklist they’d demanded.
Caustic’s steps followed. He set his boots neatly next to hers, then came closer, hovering at her shoulder. His eyes tracked the stack she shuffled through, noting how many pages bore the same markings, the same frantic loops of ink.
“Failed draft?” he asked.
“Yes,” her tone was clipped, the answer obvious.
“You’re aware they’re not that picky about formatting, aren’t you?”
“I’m aware,” she pulled Rowan’s checklist free, setting it aside on her right.
“Then why force yourself to rewrite every page?”
“Every crossed word would be marked.”
“Did Tiran do that?” he asked, voice careful, “nitpick every word?”
Her hands stilled. She met his gaze, caught the flicker of something unreadable there, “no. He didn’t. Why do you care?”
“I’m trying to understand why you go that far.”
“What far?”
“Why you throw remarks. Why you fed Caedern’s amusement.”
She snorted under her breath, “I thought I needed to appease them. Besides, it felt good hurling back half-insults.”
She went back to combing the pile.
“And being a ‘good puppy,’” he pressed, “that felt good too?”
Her hand stopped mid-page. She answered without looking at him, “no. That one wasn’t.”
Her fingers resumed, steady again.
“Then why did it?”
“I’m used to it,” she said softly, “thought that was just how some people had fun.”
At that, Caustic’s eyes widened. He started to speak, then shut his mouth, jaw flexing. When his voice returned, it was quieter, “used to it? ...Who did that?”
“Not Harbringer Tiran.”
“Then who?” His stare bore into her, insistent.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
She didn’t answer, only shifted another stack.
Her fingers closed on Junior’s session sheet. She thrust it toward him, “here. What you’re sent for.”
He took the paper. She stepped beside him, pointing at the line.
“See? It’s written there. ‘Did you trust your team leader?’ That’s why I asked that ridiculous question, considering my situation.”
His jaw tightened as he read it, “you’re right.”
“Do you need the previous sessions too?”
“Yes,” he scanned her scribbles across the margins without looking up, “why not. They’ll have to be destroyed either way.”
“Here’s the first one,” she said, handing him Rowan’s. She went back to digging.
By the time he finished Junior’s, she’d already found Nine’s. She passed it over without waiting.
“Do you want to destroy the rest yourself,” he asked, “or should I do it?”
“I will.”
“Method?”
“I’ll burn it in the sink.”
He paused, shifting his weight to look at her properly, “you’ll ruin the sink.”
“They can afford another sink. Won’t break their bank.”
He blinked at her bluntness, then chuckled, “alright. Go on. I won’t interfere.”
She struck a match and carried the stack to the bathroom. Caustic trailed after her, but stopped at the doorway, leaning to read the checklists while she worked.
Writ laid the stack on the edge, made sure the basin was dry, then ripped the first few pages. The flame caught with a hiss, curling edges to black. She fed the sink gradually, watching the words she’d labored over vanish into ash.
Caustic lowered the paper in his hand, his eyes on her instead, “Tiran doesn’t do anything your previous handler did, does he?”
The absence of title snagged at her attention, but she didn’t turn, “he doesn’t.”
“Good,” he leaned into the frame, arms crossed, watching the fire shrink each sheet, “tell us if he ever does.”
That earned him a glance, “tell whom?”
“Us. Black Quill. Everyone who graduates Treshfold is cleared for relay access to us. You knew that, didn’t you?”
Her blink betrayed her, “what?”
“You don’t? Nobody told you that?” He sighed under his breath, “bureaucracy. This is why our desks are piled high with top-down mess.”
“What do you mean?”
His voice softened, “you’re supposed to know you can reach us if you’re mishandled. And be told what’s okay, what isn’t.”
Her hand faltered over the flame. She dropped the sheet just as it singed her fingertips.
“I’m not surprised your previous handler didn’t tell you,” he continued, “but Tiran didn’t either... That’s another story.”
His mouth thinned, “life outside wasn’t supposed to be more miserable than Treshfold.”
Her eyes cut back to him, sharper this time, “are you deliberately leaving off every title in front of me? To see if I snitch? Is this another test?”
“It’s not. No one care enough to use titles outside official setting, at least that's how it is in my place," his sigh was weary, his smile sad, "this is just one exhausted man venting to another. None of this goes in a report.”
“Why me?”
“Let’s just say you’ve gained my acknowledgement,” he let the pause stretch, “mine only, though. I can’t change what those above us decide. Sorry.”
“Why now?”
“Never had a private moment like this,” he said, shrugging, “without eyes, without ears.”
She narrowed her gaze, “is that the reason for the double good luck? Because you acknowledge me?”
“Yup. That’s all I can give without compromising myself.”
The silence stretched again. Only the sound of paper tearing and fire consuming.
“What can I... report a handler for?”
“I hate to say it,” he said, “but we’re not on equal terms. Violence, shouting. If they label it as discipline, nothing will happen. Missions won’t be paused over it, and the assessments take too long to matter.”
His gaze hardened, “punishment, humiliation, or harm with no operational justification? That will trigger intervention.”
“But if you offer first,” Caustic said quietly, “the system marks it as consent. Even if it wasn’t. And once it’s labeled consent, they won’t intervene. No matter how wrong it gets. That’s how it is. Skewed, all in their favor.”
The last paper crumbled into embers. She placed it in the sink and looked at him across the smoke.
“We’re not dogs,” Caustic said, straightening, a sudden edge in his stance, “even if we’re leashed.”
She turned the tap. Ashy water gurgled down the drain, “don’t see any on you.”
He folded the checklists and slipped them into his pocket, “just because you don’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
A quiet pause settled between them, faint and heavy.
Her eyes lifted, “what did they put on you?”
“Who knows,” he shrugged, “you done?”
“I’m done.”
“Mind if I check your drawers? Wardrobe? You can hide your undergarments if that bothers you.”
“Go ahead. I don’t care.”
“Alright.”
He sifted through her desk, flipping pages. Now she was the one watching.
“Does it really have a kill switch? The collar?”
“Yes.”
“And the... one on you too?”
He skimmed another paper, “not sure what you mean.”
“Is there something else besides the bracelet and the collar?”
“Hmm... I wonder.”
The line dropped like a wall. She didn’t push further.
His hand stilled over a page covered edge to edge.
Silent Writ. Blissbane. Potion.
Ink crammed into every space. He flicked her a glance, and heat rose unbidden to her throat. She looked away.
He moved on.
“You did well,” he said finally, “too well.” a beat, “I can see why Tiran fought hard for you.”
Her head snapped, “huh?”
He set the papers back, shifting to her wardrobe.
She flanked him, “what do you mean?”
“Slip,” he said lightly, “don’t report me. Thanks.”
“Fought hard how?”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Didn’t he sign me up for this? For all of it?”
He mimed a zipper across his lips, “bzzzt.”
She stared, trying to read the trickle of information he let slip, or pretended to slip. His calmness unsettled her.
He shut the drawer, turned to face her, “I’m done here. Thank you for the cooperation.”
She nodded once.
He walked to the door, bent to his shoes. She followed, standing just behind.
“By the way,” he said while fastening the strap, leather creaking under his hands, “prepare yourself for the next part. Your heart, especially.”
“It’ll be harsher, won’t it?”
“Physically, no. Mentally, yes. Unless you truly don’t care about any of the subjects, like you admitted.”
Her throat tightened. She swallowed hard.
Did he know? What did he know? What had he guessed? Had she slipped? Had her act faltered?
Only then did she realize her guard had dropped. Because they were in her room. A space that should have been safe. The faint warmth of burnt paper still clung to the air from the sink, the smell of ash seeping out like an accusation. Here, of all places, she had let herself soften. She had let habit take over, speaking as if she were with Kion. Forgetting that the man in front of her wasn’t Accord just because he’d shown a sliver of kindness. Forgetting he wasn’t Kion.
A cold pulse of panic climbed her ribs. She scrambled to raise the mask again, to lock Lunlun’s softness deep inside before it reached anyone else’s ears.
He rose, fastening the last strap. The click of the buckle snapped too loud in the small room. He met her eyes, “I’m sorry you have to go through this. We can’t stop it at this point.”
His hand pressed briefly to her shoulder. Warm, steady. Too steady. It wasn’t the careful warmth she had come to rely on, the kind that carried a question, an unspoken are you alright? It was something heavier, offered and withdrawn before she could even decide what it meant.
He walked to the doorframe before asking, “right, do you want me to send you the rule list? What’s allowed, what’s not?”
“That won’t be needed.”
She had already survived this far. Rules only applied if the enforcer agreed to them. If Tiran had never bothered to mention it to her, then it wasn’t the rule, not for her.
“Alright then. Good luck.”
Then he left, the latch clicking shut behind him.
He said he was sorry. Was it real? Was he truly sincere? Had he helped her without strings attached, without wanting anything in return?
He’d hinted she was only pretending not to care. But was that just a guess? Would it end up in his report anyway? He had promised their conversation wouldn’t, but never mentioned his private assessment.
Maybe that was why the Veiled had sent him. Maybe she already suspected. Maybe she knew. Maybe those double “good luck” notes weren’t just kindness but recognition of her weakness.
The silence pressed in again, thicker than before. Her knees gave way before she realized it, folding her down to the floor. The wood was cool under her palms, a jolt against skin still carrying the ghost of his touch.
The air in the room felt too full, as if every word she’d said to him still hung there, wrong, heavy.
Too familiar. Too soft.
She shouldn’t have...
Her throat tightened halfway through the thought. The next breath came shallow, clipped. It felt like a hand tightening around her ribs, holding everything in. She swallowed hard, as if she could chase it down before it solidified.
The quiet pressed harder.
She let herself tip backwards, lying back where she fell, staring up at the uneven ceiling.
The smell of ash lingered. The echo of the latch clung in her ears.
She had no idea which part of today she should even begin to process first.