The recording light was steady red. A constant pinprick in the corner of her eye. Soft enough to ignore if she didn’t think about it.

  But she did. Its pulse felt too deliberate, too human in its rhythm, like someone’s breath caught behind glass.

  The air was cold and dry. Her throat felt sanded raw, and each inhale carried the metallic aftertaste of the so-called examination she’d just endured. Her chest ached from holding herself rigid too long.

  Pious stepped toward the sofa and tapped the middle cushion of the three-seater beside her. “Please sit.”

  Writ stared at the indicated spot. Wedged between Pious, polite neutrality carved into her expression, and Zyra, whose hatred was sharp enough to be felt rather than seen.

  She'd rather not.

  She crossed to the opposite sofa instead. Her knees dipped more than she meant them to when she lowered herself. Her legs hadn’t forgiven her for the procedure. Better to claim the tribunal seat across the coffee table than risk being framed between two people who could pin her without effort.

  Quiet settled over the room. Thin, brittle. The red light watched, steady and unblinking.

  Pious leaned forward, a slow, careful movement that carried its own fatigue. “Tell me what happened last night.”

  It took Writ a fraction of a beat too long to process the question.

  Her hands rested folded in her lap. They stayed there because she told them to. “The Judge entered my room for inspection. Then he left.”

  The silence that followed felt padded, smothering rather than empty. She heard the faint electrical buzz of the recorder, and the rasp of Zelra’s sleeve as she shifted.

  Pious again, “What did he do?”

  “Checked if anyone else was in the room. Standard sweep. Then left.”

  Her heartbeat felt too loud for how calm she sounded.

  “Did anyone else enter your room yesterday?”

  “No. I grant no one access. I didn’t open the door for anyone.”

  A dull tap echoed. Zyra’s boot hitting the floor. Her voice followed, casual in the way of someone already convinced of their conclusion. “Did you see anyone outside yesterday?”

  “I walked,” Writ said. “In the city, then the Hall. Thought I should know the place better before getting sent elsewhere.”

  Zyra’s pause stretched, pleased with itself. “You walked the Hall without any reason?”

  “To feel like I had one.”

  Something flickered over Zyra’s face. Contempt, amusement, both. “Do you think that’s allowed?”

  Writ kept her gaze level. “The ident-stations didn’t reject me. No one stopped me. That means permission.”

  “Is it?” Zyra asked, eyes narrowed.

  It was bait.

  Pious cleared her throat. “For the record, it is allowed. If the area were restricted, the door wouldn't open.”

  Writ looked up briefly. “Noted.”

  Pious shuffled paper, the pen’s scratch whisper-thin. “Noetic said she met you. What did you talk about?”

  “Greetings. I thought the corridor in front of the Black Quill office led somewhere. It didn’t. I assume she got a notification I was there and checked.”

  “Then?”

  “I left the Hall.”

  Zyra didn’t bother writing any of it. “Why not continue your leisurely stroll?”

  “Because I realized it might not be wise. Black Quill let me go easily. Other divisions might be more... territorial.”

  Pious, “Where did you go next?”

  “Back to the inn. Didn't leave my room until morning.”

  Zyra's brow arched. “Not even to use the bathroom? Or get food?”

  “I have my own bathroom. I'd bought meals beforehand.”

  The topic closed. A brief, suffocating silence settled again.

  “Tell me the sequence of the inspection,” Pious said.

  Writ inhaled deliberately.

  “I was reading. The knock came. I opened the door, let Judge Caedern in. He asked if I’d let anyone in before. Checked the window, bathroom, wardrobe, under the bed, under the desk. Activated clairvoyance. No one. He told me about today’s summon, then left.”

  She kept the division switch to herself. Tiran didn't know that. An unsanctioned bait. Mentioning it would only dig her deeper.

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  Her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth. She could almost see him again. His silhouette, the ozone flicker of the doorwatch glyph, the way her pulse stuttered then forced itself steady.

  Pious’ tone softened. “What else?”

  “Nothing.”

  A long, stretched beat. Time sagged, unmeasured.

  “He confessed,” Pious said quietly. “You don’t need to protect anyone. Tell me what actually happened.”

  Her pulse thudded hard at her throat. Iron ghosted onto her tongue before she spoke.

  “I don’t remember anything else.”

  Zyra cut in. “How come?”

  “I’m not sure. Details after the search are hazy.”

  “Were you drunk?”

  “No.”

  Pious, “Did he tell you to consume anything?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Did he bring ropes?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have ropes in your room?” Zyra pressed.

  “Standard gear. Yes.”

  Silence sharpened around them.

  “So what’s the chance you made those marks yourself?” Zyra asked.

  Writ’s fingers twitched once against her thigh. “I couldn’t tie them that tight on myself. And the one on my back. I can barely reach it, let alone cause it.”

  Zyra’s eyes flicked once toward the curtain before she smirked. “You’re a model Harbinger. That’s what you do, fabricate things.”

  “Physiology modification is beyond my ability.”

  “Magic, glyphtech, something. You must have something under your sleeve.”

  “Our equipment is restricted to public stock and permitted Glyphfire devices. Those require approval. Logged. Check the log.”

  Her voice stayed level. Her spine did not. Every muscle felt strung too tight.

  “Then someone helped you,” Zyra said.

  “Noetic was the most of my interaction. After that, only the meal shop and the innkeeper.”

  “No friends? No one sneaking in to help you?”

  “No. Judge Caedern would’ve found traces. And I don’t know anyone in Brandholt.”

  Zyra’s smile held quiet venom. “You’re just lonely, then. Lonely enough to seduce him with whatever rough games you thought he wanted.”

  Writ blinked once. Pious’s head snapped toward Zyra, eyes flaring wide.

  The red light blinked along. Not steady. Wrong.

  Zyra had switched it off.

  “I didn’t seduce anyone.”

  “Bet you enjoyed the whole session,” Zyra sneered.

  “That’s a baseless accusation,” Pious said, voice like flint.

  “Shut up. I’m not talking to you,” Zyra shot back.

  “This is a formal questioning,” Pious said.

  “This is between me and anyone trying to drag Judge Caedern’s name through the mud.”

  The way she said his name wasn’t reverence. It was possession. Writ felt the click. Sudden and cold.

  Zyra was his. Caeden's favorite.

  Pious noticed the recorder too. “This isn’t allowed. Turn it back on. Now.”

  Zyra snorted. “Or what? You’ll tattle to your mommy? Scary.” She moved the device further away. “Sit still. Don’t interfere, Ink.”

  The silence that followed was tight, humming with static.

  Writ exhaled. “It’s fine. We can talk. Let her be.”

  Pious turned to her slowly, disbelief written plain. “Not you too.”

  “She wants it. We follow, right?”

  Pious’s jaw tightened. A long exhale. “Fine. Suit yourselves.”

  Zyra’s grin cut sharp, “That's better.”

  The air seemed to cool. Pious leaned back with a quiet groan, eyes shut. Letting a low string of profanity slip out.

  Zyra’s voice sliced, “I know the likes of you. People under trial. Cornered. trying to bargain their way out. Seducing the Judge, crying amnesia when it fails.”

  Pious rubbed her temple without looking up. “I didn’t sign up for this,” she murmured.

  Neither did I.

  But Writ kept quiet.

  “You can stop pretending. Just cut the chase and admit you asked for it. You wanted it. That’s why you got restrained and whipped.” Zyra’s stare returned, merciless. "Then I’ll give my good impression to the Judge and maybe that can help.”

  Writ’s tone stayed even. “How can you be sure I’m the one asking?”

  “You’re not his type,” Zyra spat. “He has options, plenty. Far better than Treshfold trash.”

  “Not his type?” Writ’s voice stayed disturbingly calm. “You sure we’re talking about the same person? Judge Caedern’s quite fond of me. Pious can confirm that.”

  “Please don’t drag me into this,” Pious muttered.

  “So you admit it was consensual. Case closed.” Zyra snapped.

  Writ inhaled slowly. “Fine. Let’s turn the recording on and do it the way you want.”

  Pious flicked her hand in a tired circle. “It doesn’t have to go this way.”

  Writ continued, steady. “Judge Caedern likes me enough to offer a switch to his division, quietly. Without Harbringer Tiran knowing.”

  Her pulse hammered so loudly she felt it in her gums.

  “Let them hear that.”

  The silence that followed told her she’d guessed right.

  Division transfers didn’t happen like that. Not for Shadows. Not without a handler’s consent. Whatever Caedern had proposed, it crossed lines she wasn’t supposed to name, and every face in the room knew it.

  Pious went very still.

  Zyra’s jaw tightened, cracked at the hinge. “Now you’re making things up.”

  “I’ll say on record that I’m willing to reconsider, if he admits it and makes the offer official. He’ll agree.”

  Her voice dropped. “He said he’d pull some strings to make it happen. Bypass a few steps. Makes you wonder which one of us would end up his favorite.”

  Pious groaned behind her hands and muttered a vicious little monologue at no one in particular.

  “Lies,” Zyra hissed.

  “Turn it on,” Writ said. “We’ll see if I lie.”

  A beat stretched taut.

  “He offered, I refused. I tried to hide it, but Caustic caught on anyway. Saying it out loud would clear me, and drag him through the mud. As you said."

  She held Zyra’s gaze, letting the heat in it wash over her without flinching.

  “So... if he declares it officially, I’ll accept. His reputation stays intact. He calls off whatever they planned for me next, like he promised. Everyone wins.”

  The silence that followed felt alive. Zyra’s expression cracked. Barely, but enough. Writ kept her gaze steady, pulse climbing second by second, praying Zyra wouldn’t call her bluff. Hoping the gamble held.

  “Say something,” Writ spoke softly. “Or do you need to run back and tattle to daddy first?”

  Pious rolled her eyes, a hand half-covering her mouth as she tried, and failed, not to laugh at how this was unfolding.

  Zyra finally spoke, voice tight. “What do you want?”

  Writ kept her posture out of necessity. Slouching would pull something sharp along her spine.

  “Accept that I don’t remember last night. Judge Caedern didn’t do anything. Whatever marks I have, they aren’t from him. No mention of the offer. Move on.”

  Zyra’s expression flickered. “You don’t want the switch.”

  “I don’t. And I know you don’t want me there either.”

  Fabric rustled, the curtain faltered again. Writ’s head throbbed behind her left eye.

  One last push.

  Please.

  “If the consequence for ‘smearing his name’ is getting reassigned to his division, then fine. I know how this looks. A Treshfold-made refusing the Judge, then waking up with marks. That stains him, not me.”

  She paused, letting the implication sink in.

  “I don’t want that. So here’s the cleanest outcome: he makes the offer official, and everything stays untarnished.”

  Zyra hesitated. A small, involuntary recoil, hatred flaring sharper, hotter, as if scorched by her own doubt.

  Then something in her shoulders dropped. “Fine. We start over. No accusation. No offer. This never happened.”

  Pious dropped her hands, utterly done. She hissed a few choice words she didn’t bother to hide.

  Writ looked at Pious. “Can you help me keep it that way?”

  “I heard nothing,” Pious said. “I’m not involved.”

  “Thank you.”

  The recorder clicked, small as an exhale. The red light steadied. Alive again.

  No one mentioned the missing minutes.

  But Writ could feel them, thick in her lungs, like smoke that wouldn’t clear.

  Writ may have gone a little too hard, but backing down wasn't an option.