High Councilor’s Office, East Wing, Kesherra Basin
The tea had gone cold. He hadn’t touched it. Not even the rosehip one, which he usually favored for early afternoons.
“You’d think the little one would warm the tea like it’s supposed to,” Featherglint muttered, adjusting the relay node.
The soft shuffle of paper, the scratch of pen on parchment, and the faint click of a relay node filled the wide study with the kind of quiet that belonged only to busy minds. Arkwyn sat behind his desk, posture impeccable, one hand steadying a stack of border reports while the other penned signatures with precision.
Until it didn’t.
Ink bloomed where it shouldn’t have, blotting a name he’d written a hundred times before. He blinked.
Featherglint didn’t glance up from the relay logs, but his tone was casual as always, “Relay Point Nine’s gone hot again,” he said, “one scout three days ago, now a team of four. Shadows.”
Arkwyn refocused with effort, “who’s stationed there?”
“Sparklefish, plus four migrants,” Featherglint’s pen continued its rhythm as he flipped another log sheet, “they’re stuck in the closed hall. Good thing we set that backup node. Your idea, remember?”
Arkwyn didn’t reply.
Featherglint paused, glanced sideways, then cleared his throat, “Commander?”
Arkwyn blinked again, the page under his pen still empty.
“Sorry,” he murmured, “repeat that?”
“Sparklefish and four migrants. Trapped in the hall,” Featherglint repeated, more gently now, “they managed to send a message through the relay node about ten minutes ago.”
Across the room, Arkwyn’s aide looked up from the requisition forms he’d been cataloging, brow creased.
Arkwyn pressed his fingers briefly to his forehead, “have you asked if they can wait the shadows out?”
“No,” Featherglint answered, “the Shadows are already right in front of the chamber. There’s no alternative exit from the third floor. The migrants aren’t fit to scale the outer ducts. Sparklefish said the Shadows were arguing near the memory trap. Then a tree, yes, a tree, sprouted. They think the Shadows were thrown into the trap.”
That made both Arkwyn and his aide pause.
“That’s... convenient,” the aide muttered.
“Could Sparklefish go through the trap? Confirm IDs?” Arkwyn asked, voice carefully level, “the Shadows usually carry identifier stones.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” the aide replied immediately, sliding another sealed scroll aside, “even with hint markers, the core location differs per user, and only stars above know what that trap shows.”
“Still,” Featherglint interjected, “Sparklefish heard names. They were yelling. Loud enough to be caught from the hidden alcove.”
A pause.
“They don’t usually allow names in field use,” the aide said warily.
“They don’t,” Arkwyn agreed, “which means those names are fake, unless they carried titles.”
“Writ,” Featherglint added, “seems to be the leader. Then Fane. The other two are men, Reck and Junior.”
“Writ,” the aide repeated, standing now, “as in the Silent Writ? The one they sent to Karmith?”
The name shouldn’t have mattered, but it caught in Arkwyn's ribs like a thorned root.
“They don’t use aliases that overlap with titled agents,” Arkwyn said, massaging his temple, “so yes, likely her.”
“Evacuate them,” the aide said immediately, turning to Featherglint, “no identification. Just leave. Now.”
Featherglint glanced at Arkwyn, awaiting confirmation.
“Yes,” Arkwyn said, “do that. If they’ve engineered those trees, the entire structure could go down in seconds. Get Sparklefish’s team out before any of them emerge.”
Featherglint nodded. Arkwyn watched his fingers move, too fast, too practiced. Like muscle memory overriding dread. The magical device flickered softly, confirming message sent.
“I doubt the Shadows will make it out from the trap,” the aide murmured, returning to his desk and checking a glyph-sealed document for integrity.
Arkwyn’s vision blurred again. The archives swam before him, twice over, then back into place.
“Still,” Featherglint said, keeping his tone light but careful, “if it’s truly her, she might. The Silent Writ’s cracked stronger wards in Karmith without backup.”
The aide tapped a ledger closed, “then let’s hope the trap bought us enough time.”
The pen in Arkwyn’s hand stilled. Ink feathered again, another blot, spreading like bruising beneath a name. He sighed through his nose, set the ruined sheet aside, and reached for a fresh one.
Featherglint and the aide exchanged a glance. One shrugged, the other frowned.
A beat passed. Then the aide stepped closer and tapped Arkwyn’s shoulder, “something wrong?”
Before Arkwyn could answer, Featherglint chimed in with a grin, “our glorious Supreme is malfunctioning. Did the little one drain the mana pool again?”
“No,” Arkwyn lifted his gaze to the aide, offered nothing more.
Featherglint leaned forward on his elbows, watching, “you usually fly through paperwork, or is the tea selection too underwhelming today?”
“Just a headache,” Arkwyn replied quietly, “since morning.”
The aide didn’t comment further, just adjusted the ink pot away from Arkwyn’s reach, a subtle gesture.
“Maybe take the rest of the day,” he said, voice low but firm.
“No,” Arkwyn murmured, “any updates from Sparklefish?”
Featherglint checked the relay again, “no further messages. I’d assume they’re on the move.”
Arkwyn set the pen down, hand tightening briefly.
“I hope they make it,” he said, “we’ve lost too many lately. It feels like I’m sending them into slaughter.”
“Every survivor is one you’ve pulled back from the brink,” the aide replied, voice gentler now, “we all knew the cost, even the migrants.”
“Yeah,” Featherglint added, “don’t forget, we’d be nothing but scattered corpses by now if not for you. I just hope we all make it through the end, and meet again after.”
Arkwyn reached for his teacup out of habit. The handle snapped. Liquid spilled over the desk, soaking ink and parchment alike.
Featherglint was out of his chair in a flash, “alright, that’s it. You’re done for the day.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” the aide cut in, already lifting Arkwyn’s arm from one side.
Featherglint took the other, “we’ll sort the documents. You go lie down before you turn this whole library into a soggy shrine.”
Arkwyn chuckled, faint, reluctant, but genuine. He didn’t resist. They led him gently to the long couch against the window. A sylph, summoned by the little one earlier, drifted past and offered a soft hum of greeting. He smiled back.
“Get some rest,” Featherglint said, returning to his relay logs, “don’t come back until your expression doesn’t make the plants wilt.”
Arkwyn exhaled with another chuckle, settling into the cushions, “if you say so.”
The aide returned to his desk without another word, already resuming his tally sheets.
“Thank you, both,” Arkwyn said, softly.
Then he closed his eyes and let the silence hold him.
But somewhere beneath that quiet, something tugged. Subtle, Unsettling. He didn’t know what it was, only that something was wrong.
???'s POV
Somewhere between Arkwyn's Office and his personal chamber, East Wing, Kesherra Basin
It was like turning off the world mid-scream.
Like being left in the echo.
The thread didn’t break.
It didn’t fray.
It just... stopped.
Not gone.
Not severed.
Just... nothing.
No pulse. No storm. No her.
His breath caught, sharp and wrong.
He’d been riding a mess of emotion through that tether all day.
First the usual calm, tight, neat, familiar.
Then guilt.
Then that wary edge she always carried when things didn’t line up.
Then annoyance.
Then...
Panic.
Spiking like a blade unsheathed in a crowd. Sudden. Sharp. Noticed by all.
It flickered, then dimmed. Faint. Like breath underwater.
So he gave it a tug. Just a gentle one. A reminder.
I’m here.
She didn’t answer, but the panic eased for a heartbeat.
He exhaled in relief.
It didn’t last.
The next wave hit harder.
Desperation.
No more silence.
Only flailing, screaming, fury. Louder by the second.
It pulsed so loud in his ribs he had to excuse himself mid-meeting, mumbled something about a sour-leaf blend and flew away.
The quartermaster called after him, probably some snide comment. He didn’t hear it. Didn’t care.
She was too far. He could feel that much.
Somewhere beyond the mountain forest. Maybe two days’ ride. One, if she begged a dryad and bribed a sylph.
Too far.
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Too late.
And then...
Stillness.
Abrupt. Unnerving. Like falling asleep mid-step and waking with no floor beneath you.
He clipped a sconce in the hallway.
No one caught any glimpse of him, he was still cloaked, but the impact rattled the lantern chain loud enough to send two junior scholars running, whispering ghost stories.
Didn’t matter. He staggered to his door.
His wings jittered as he entered through the narrow overhead vent, one of the old draft channels above the frame.
Still no change. No shift. The thread stayed silent.
Only his own heartbeat, hammering in his skull.
“There is no one left to receive your words.”
“Not your kin, nor your people.”
The dryad’s words from five years ago looped louder than they should.
No.
No.
Not again.
Please.
Don’t die.
He tugged the thread again. Harder this time.
Lit it with his own mana, shaped it like a flare, like a hand reaching through fog.
Still no answer.
Don’t die on me.
He moved fast after that.
Fired off pulse-notes of magic to everyone he knew in Brandholt’s range. Dryads, sylphs, gnomes, even a snarky undine who hated his guts but owed him a favor.
Fast travel. Immediate. No questions.
He scrawled a letter. A farewell for his team.
Didn’t reread it. Just pressed the seal and didn’t look back.
His bag. His charms. His blade.
Go.
He reached for the overhead vent.
And froze.
The thread pulsed.
Faint.
Still.
But alive.
His knees hit the floor.
Not from pain. Just... relief.
Sudden, sharp, and crumpling.
He let himself glide down the tiles, chest to the ground, wings buzzing wild beneath his cloak.
Alive. She’s alive.
He canceled every message.
Tore the letter in half.
Didn’t even blink.
Didn’t need it anymore.
Then he went still.
Pressed his hand to the mark, the link. Felt the tether pulsing quiet.
She was still inside something. Still struggling. But slower now. Softer.
No more panic.
No more claws.
Just... a breath.
And he...
He answered.
Magic, low and steady, poured back into the thread.
Nothing forceful, nothing loud.
Just a hand waiting, holding the line.
Just steady.
Just there.
A promise woven quiet beneath his ribs.
If she reached for it,
He’d never let go.
The quiet remained.
But now he understood what pulsed beneath it.
Not wrongness.
Not dread.
Not death.
Just her.
Still trying. Still breathing. Still here.
And he would be too.