Arkwyn's Personal Library, East Wing, Kesherra Basin
“Do my eyes deceive me,” drawled a man from the doorway, “or is that a fresh flower and a scented candle on our exalted leader’s desk?”
Arkwyn didn’t look up. He was kneeling by the archive drawers, one gloved hand gliding across the spines with a familiar hum beneath his breath.
“Oh, don’t get me started,” said the woman already lounging on the sofa, arms folded and clipboard resting against her knee, “He even used the little one’s air-cleansing privileges. Had the sylphs filter the room for dust and scent. Then asked me for twelve varieties of tea. Imported.”
The man let out a theatrical gasp, stepping fully into the room. His satchel hit the nearest lounge table with a soft thud as he dropped into the sofa like a man freshly wounded.
“And now he’s humming?” he asked no one in particular, “by the Roots, did working with Fairydust finally knock something loose in your brain? I thought I was the one still recovering from the bruises.”
“Mm,” the quartermaster murmured, looking up from her clipboard where she reviewed supply tallies, “You left the stairwell open. You’re lucky that’s all we’re still recovering from.”
Featherglint held up both hands, “yes, yes, I know. Guilty as charged. It was a momentary lapse in stair awareness.”
Only when her eyes stopped glaring did he reach, very pointedly, for a cookie from the mason jar on the table.
He bit into it with mock reverence, “and cookies too. Stars above. Are we hosting a library date? Tell us, dear Supreme Councilor, who’s the girl?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” the quartermaster said, finally setting her clipboard down beside Featherglint’s satchel. She plucked a cookie herself, “he’s been combing those archives for hours. What kind of date prep involves taxonomic cross-references?”
She threw a couch pillow in his direction. Arkwyn, without looking, tilted his head and let it fly past harmlessly.
“She hasn’t accepted yet,” he said simply, dusting an old scroll as he pulled it free, “but yes. I invited someone.”
“A she,” Featherglint bellowed, clutching his chest like he’d been shot. “A she! After more than a decade of nobles, archivists, and peace envoys practically throwing themselves at you like festival confetti, and you finally invite someone!”
“Does she know?” the quartermaster asked, her tone softening slightly. “About... well. You.”
Arkwyn stilled mid-movement. Not tense, just... considering.
“She doesn’t,” he admitted, “not yet.”
Featherglint glanced sideways at the quartermaster, eyebrow raised.
“And you’re going to tell her?” she asked quietly.
He closed the scroll with care and tapped the edge against his chin in thought.
“No,” he said, “not now. I’m just opening the door. Seeing if she’ll step inside.”
Featherglint exhaled a long, drawn-out “Oh my...”, eyes gleaming like a child who’d just caught someone sneaking sweets before dinner.
“If she does decide to come,” Arkwyn continued, returning the scroll to its slot, “it’ll be my pleasure. Regardless of the result.”
A brief silence fell, lighter than the kind that hung in council chambers, and more intimate.
Featherglint, unusually quiet, nudged the mason jar closer to the quartermaster with a wink. “We should make a betting pool.”
The quartermaster arched an eyebrow, “you think any of us can predict him?”
“No, but we can certainly try.”
Arkwyn’s lips curved in a small smile. He was surrounded by a fleeting piece of calm, one he’d gone to great lengths to create.
He let himself enjoy it, just for a moment, knowing it would never linger long.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
“And now,” he murmured, brushing a speck of dust from the corner of the desk, “we wait.”
The Silent Writ’s POV
The archive keeper didn’t ask questions. Just unlocked the back section and let her in.
Writ didn’t ask for help. Just nodded and started scanning the shelves.
The identification stone embedded in her leather bracelet still carried weight, both in the Hall of Accordance, and in whispers of the Shadow Accord.
The records were old. Most hadn’t been touched in years, glyph glossaries, magical fauna compendiums, even prohibited cross-indexes tucked between “misfiled” alchemy scrolls. She pored over each one, hands steady, eyes dry.
No wraithlings. No thread-magic. No clue. No mention of Ardion Arkwyn being a mage, either.
The hours bled into days. Then into a week.
She’d scoured every archive in Brandholt, both as Lysa, the meek herbalist, and as the Silent Writ. Some visits were official, permits forged. Others, quieter, through locked windows after hours.
She ate little. Slept even less. The cot in the corner of her rented room stayed cold. Untouched.
The hum beneath her skin hadn’t faded, just settled. Like a splinter too deep to pull. She’d tried tracing the thread’s magic, once, barely. The memory of its pull pressed on like old bruises. Wrong, elegant, intentional. And she still didn’t know what it meant.
At one point, she’d considered traveling to Eidryn. The Sovereign Institute catered to mages, archived everything magical, sanctioned or not. If anything could explain the thread, its shape, its function, it would be there.
She could sneak in. Probably. The Institute’s barriers would be difficult, but not impossible.
But Eidryn lay far beyond the Concord’s reach. Crossing into their region without Shadow Accord permission would be seen as desertion. Treason, even. The Accord would send hunters. She couldn’t afford that. Not yet.
So she stayed. Hunted for scraps in misfiled scrolls and outdated indexes. Chased half-names and faded glyphwork. And got nothing.
Her notebook, meant to track her findings, was a tangle of jagged script. Half-legible. Half-mad.
With a groan, she dropped her head to the page.
“A wraithling sends his regards. I do hope the thread wasn’t too tight.”
“Would be a shame if it severed something vital.”
She replayed the words in her mind, over and over.
A bluff? Possibly. But the way he said it... the weight of his mana...
She had never met a mage like him.
Mages still existed, even after the self-exile of magical creatures, faint echoes of what they’d once been. She’d met a few. Killed a few. But none of them had that kind of pressure, that precision.
If he was a mage, no, not if, if he was a mage with a creature, that would explain it. A contract, a bond, that level of control. And if that creature was a wraithling... She still wasn’t sure what that meant. Not really.
Maybe he’d mentioned it just to throw her off.A misdirection, or layered bluff. He could afford those.
But even if it wasn’t a wraithling, whatever he’d tied to her, she still had no idea what it would do, if it still existed at all.
“If you have anything to ask,” he’d said,
“you know where to find me. I promise to be more hospitable. No barriers. I’ll even make you tea.”
She wanted to laugh. It sounded like a threat wearing perfume.
He’d tagged her, dangled the bait, and he knew she’d bite. That was the worst part.
Maybe that was why he did it. She hated that it worked. So, of course, she tried to find him. The real him. Not the one who offered tea.
There wasn’t much recorded about Ardion Arkwyn either. Nothing about magical aptitude. Nothing about contracts. Nothing about wraithlings.
Only that he joined the Bronze Concord fourteen years ago. And somehow, in the years between, climbed all the way to the High Councilor position of the Council of Knowledge, the governing spine of the nation. A prodigy scholar. Obsessive, meticulous, and insatiable.
His published research covered leyline interference, ecological anomalies, and a certain deadly flower, once thought extinct, now reappearing and suspected to be the source of a spreading ailment.
It wasn’t just that he studied the strange, he hunted it. Catalogued it. Broke it apart until it made sense on paper.
And now she feared he’d added her to the list.
Maybe she was the first shadow with a face he’d ever seen. Maybe that was why he let her go. Why he hadn’t reported her. Why he’d laced her spine with golden thread instead of shackles.
He didn’t want to catch her. He wanted to study her.
The thought made her stomach lurch. She could see it too clearly. Her movements dissected in margins, her mana signature scribbled beside petal diagrams and corrupted leyline maps. Just another anomaly, pressed between pages.
She shuddered. He wasn’t a warden. Or a hunter. He was a scholar. The worst kind. And she hated that he might be the only light in the tunnel. Even if he was also the reason she was trapped inside it.
She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling.
Maybe it would be safe enough. He was a High Councilor. He couldn’t harm her openly. Not unless she gave him cause.
But had he told anyone about his invitation? Doubtful. Probably not.
Which meant no one would know if she disappeared into his personal space and never walked out again.
Maybe she could outrun him. He’d promised no barriers. She could probably slip out if it went south.
Probably.
Maybe he had other traps waiting.
Or maybe... maybe it really was just tea.
He was an Oath-Keeper, wasn’t he? They upheld vows. Even the ridiculous ones. Did that include tea invitations?
She rubbed her temple. Gods, she was actually considering it.
Maybe she could offer a trade. Not her real information, of course. Just a breadcrumb. Something useless, something that wouldn’t trace back to her.
She didn’t even have to drink the tea. Just listen. Just learn.
Her thoughts spiraled, tangled and frayed.
The bracelet pulsed. She missed it. Only the knock brought her back. Two short, three quick bursts of four.
Her head snapped up.
Another grade two, then. Routine, almost. Not too dangerous. But it meant she wouldn’t be returning to the room with the copper seal.
Wouldn’t be getting answers.
Or tea.
So much for tea.