Three others entered the adjoining room just before her. A moment later, she stepped into the one Tiran had directed her to.

  He glanced up briefly when she placed her daily report on the table. Only after finishing the page in front of him did he shift his posture toward her.

  The document she’d found following the coded knock hadn’t revealed much. Only that this “Redacted Seed” mission would be a group task, and her primary role was erasure. The other assigned numbers meant nothing to her.

  “You’ll be heading to Relay Point Nine to disable relay nodes. All of them,” Tiran began, “It’s an old outpost, officially decommissioned after the Brandholt restructuring. But something’s still transmitting. Someone reopened it, and someone else might be listening. If you can identify who, do it quietly.”

  Writ nodded.

  “We’ve mapped the structure and identified likely trap placements,” he continued, laying out three maps, one for each floor, “the one you need to watch for is a memory trap. It severs conscious presence. You’d be left in a trance, your body vulnerable. It’s already marked here. Shouldn’t be difficult to avoid.”

  Another nod.

  “You’ll be joined by three from Verdict Wing,” Tiran said next, “their role is demolition after your task is done. They’ll be deploying a new tool: a modified seed created by Glyphfire. First time outside the test grounds. They’ll brief you shortly. You’ll lead. They’ll follow your pace.”

  He added, “there’s a First Blade on the team.”

  Someone green. Fresh out of the Treshfold. A liability. But not one she could refuse.

  She tilted her head slightly, “am I required to file an assessment?”

  “No. Not obligated. Only if you think it necessary. His seniors will report on him.”

  She nodded.

  Tiran pointed to a side section on the map, “there’s a watchtower nearby. Already secured. Use it as a rendezvous point if needed. You have one week.”

  Another nod.

  He tidied the maps and handed them to her, “questions?”

  Writ accepted them with a silent nod, “where’s the team?”

  “Next door,” he said, “they’re briefing the First Blade. Someone will call you in once that’s done.”

  She nodded again, and silence settled.

  “You may sit.”

  Writ took the nearest chair. Tiran lit a cigarette, and the scent made her wince. The smoke dragged up a half-buried memory she didn’t want.

  He spoke again, “about your last inquiry. The tether that didn’t anchor.”

  She straightened.

  “It’s not in our glyph-sight archives,” he said, “Eidryn reports no new developments either, only what you already know.”

  Her stomach dipped, but she nodded.

  He studied her carefully, “you’re certain it has nothing to do with what led to your withdrawal on the last mission?”

  She’d prepared for this, “yes. I only heard the whisper when I came to confirm the map last time. It’s in that day’s report,” she said, calm and measured, tapping the stack of papers in front of her as if to reinforce it.

  His gaze lingered. She hated how sharp Tiran could be.

  A knock broke the moment.

  He sighed and waved her off, “go ahead. You’re dismissed.”

  Writ left with smooth, controlled steps.

  The room next door was brighter, the air charged with motion. A Glyphfire agent stood in the center, holding up a marble-sized orb with green bursts flickering at its core.

  “We call this the seedwake pod,” he said, offering it for her to inspect, “not exactly explosive, but it’ll simulate natural overgrowth well enough. Looks like the trees took the place down.”

  Writ held the orb, feeling the cool weight. Glyphfire always loved their inventions.

  “If you want to detonate them all at once, you’ll need to lay a glyph network before sealing the final one,” the man explained, “otherwise, they’ll trigger immediately. You don’t want that. It gets messy fast.”

  He gestured toward the others in the room, three agents, each holding a pod of their own.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “They’re still plants,” he said, “coverage is limited. That’s why we’ve marked out placements, they’re spaced for full coverage.”

  The three Verdict Wing agents handled the pods with practiced ease, clearly familiar tools.

  “They’ve trained with both the pods and the activation work. You’re in good hands.”

  She nodded.

  Verdict Wings often handled clean ups and infrastructure collapse, frequently partnered with Glyphfire for that reason.

  “Any questions before I go?” the agent asked.

  Writ turned to the team, “are you truly familiar with the seedwake pod?”

  The woman with a short blonde ponytail stepped forward, “yes. We’ve worked with it since the prototype phase. Junior too,” she added, tilting her head toward the youngest of the trio.

  Writ turned back, “that will do. Thank you.”

  The agent placed a pouch of pods on the table, “then good luck,” he said, and exited.

  Writ was still inspecting the pod when the blonde woman addressed her again.

  “So you’re the infamous Silent Writ,” she said with a small smile, “we’ll be in your care.”

  Writ looked up. The woman and the burgundy-haired man beside her were close in age, early twenties, probably. Partners, then. Standard for Verdict Wings, whose assignments were usually too large for solo agents.

  The third, an ash-green-haired boy standing a little too stiff, stuck out. He must be the First Blade.

  “What should I call you?”

  “I’m 405021 and she’s 415136,” the man said, bowing slightly, “Still just numbers for now, no name or title yet. But she calls me Reck, and I call her Fane."

  “Easier that way,” Fane added with a shrug, “no one likes being called a string of numbers.”

  Writ nodded, then turned to the boy, “you’re the First Blade.”

  He startled, “y-yes! I’m 975910. Most just call me Junior. Pleased to make your acquaintance!” He bowed deeply.

  Writ raised a brow. Not many left the Treshfold with their light still intact. The Accord had a way of burning it out. He must have been very lucky, or very new.

  “Alright. Fane, Reck, Junior. Show me your objective.”

  The two seniors unfolded the map, explaining their plan: three floors, thirty-two planting points, each marked with glyphwork. Once the building was vacated, all pods would be triggered in sync.

  “This one is too close to the memory trap,” Writ said, pointing to a third-floor mark, “can we move it?”

  “We’d miss the center coverage if we did,” Fane replied, “that’s the best placement.”

  Risking a trance state for symmetry. How very Verdict Wing. The last time she’d seen one triggered, it took three days to find the operative’s mind again. The body had already started to rot.

  “Can we plant extras around it?”

  “Glyphfire only gave us what’s needed, no spares. This version’s still in short supply.”

  “What about other means? Explosives, acid?”

  Reck shook his head, “orders were clear. Seedwake only.”

  Not ideal. But not negotiable.

  “Deadline?” she asked.

  “A week,” Fane confirmed.

  Writ ran the calculations. A day’s ride to Relay Point Nine, give or take. Enough time to prepare.

  “When do we depart?” Reck asked.

  She paused, thinking, “meet me at the watchtower in three days.”

  Fane frowned, “that long? Why not tomorrow?”

  “I’ll scout ahead. Solo. I want to confirm the marker's reliability.”

  Fane nodded, and Reck followed. Junior glanced between them before echoing the gesture.

  “Harbingers never trust handouts,” Reck muttered.

  “Wouldn’t survive long if they did,” Fane replied.

  Writ didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

  “Writ, do you mind if Junior takes the third floor with you?” Fane asked.

  Three days had passed, just as promised. The Verdict Wing arrived exactly when she expected them to. The watchtower was as safe as Tiran had claimed.

  Writ’s gaze didn’t shift, “you sure? The memory trap is still active at the center of the third floor. It’s the most dangerous area.”

  Junior held his breath.

  “It took you a full day to scout the place solo,” Fane continued, “I’d rather not stay too long. The trees here look like they know too much,” She gestured toward the thick, vine-draped woods surrounding them.

  “We could split between the first and second floors,” Reck offered, “then all four regroup on the third. Bit of a delay, but safer.”

  “That’s preferable,” Writ agreed, “don’t underestimate a memory trap. We still have plenty of time even if we pace it slow.”

  Fane groaned. Reck gave her a comforting pat on the back. Junior exhaled like he’d just dodged a spear.

  The building hadn’t strayed far from the map she’d been given, but something about the third floor didn’t sit right.

  “There’s a hallway that’s too short compared to the plan,” she told them, “and faint traces of movement. Could be someone passing through, or someone staying. Either way, better be cautious.”

  Junior straightened, clearly unsettled. Fane sighed but gave a firm nod. Reck followed suit.

  “Alright then,” Fane said, “you’d know better than we do about this kind of thing.”

  Writ said nothing. She’d already marked two hidden relay nodes that hadn’t appeared on the original maps. Worse, the oddly short hallway reminded her too much of the sealed sixth room in Kesherra Basin’s east wing. No fresh wall here, but the sensation of a ward cloaked in air, subtle and wrong, was all too familiar. She hadn’t found a way in. No seam, no crack. Just an absence that felt deliberate.

  “Do any of you have trouble walking alone?” she asked, “the relay nodes are scattered. I’ll need to destroy them before we regroup on the third floor.”

  “I’ll go solo,” Fane offered, “the boys talk better without me anyway.”

  Reck gave a half-shrug, “we’re used to partial team splits. Don’t worry, we’ll manage.”

  Writ nodded once. They weren’t liabilities, at least. That was a start.

  They began preparing in silence. She mapped her route with quiet precision, checked her blades, inspected her glyphstones. The Verdict Wing divided the seedwake pods, murmuring to Junior about glyph network placement and timing.

  Their side of preparation finished faster. Junior approached with hesitant steps, curiosity etched across his face.

  Writ looked up, pausing in the middle of a calculation.

  He fidgeted, then blurted, “I heard you survived the Thorn Mar— uff!”

  The rest of his sentence was eaten by Reck’s palm slamming over his mouth. Fane was on him a heartbeat later.

  “We’re so sorry!” she said quickly, dragging him backward, “please ignore him! He’s just a First Blade. Please continue. You were doing great!”

  Writ didn’t flinch. She gave a slight nod and returned to her map. At least outwardly.

  The name had cracked something open, briefly. She forced it shut.

  Behind her, whispers hissed in clumsy chorus.

  “You idiot,” Reck muttered, “you don’t ask about that. Never. Not if you want to stay breathing.”

  “Or keep your kneecaps,” Fane added.

  Writ pressed her pen a little harder than she meant to and focused on the numbers.

  Half an hour later, they stood at the threshold of Relay Point Nine.

  The abandoned outpost loomed before them, its crooked roof swallowed by creeping ivy. The forest around it watched but refused to cross the boundary. Trees stopped just shy of the structure’s edge, their roots curling away from the foundation.

  The air was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  The seed-planting season came late this year. Maybe for a reason.