She didn’t remember choosing a direction. Only that her feet carried her past the gate and into the outskirts, toward the patch of field where she and Kion had waited out the night beneath the safety of his barrier. He’d told her he went higher when the city pressed too close, to the northern wall’s peak, but this was as far as she could reach without thinking.
Apparently she copied him without meaning to. Her body had drifted here on instinct, seeking something open, something unguarded.
She lowered herself to the ground slowly. Kneeling first. Then sitting. Then letting her spine sink into the grass.
Nothing hurt.
Her back felt... normal. No throb, no pull, none of the sick heat she’d come to expect from welted skin. Tiran’s strikes had always left her unable to lie on her back for days, weeks, sometimes. The sting, the swelling, the rawness.
But now? Nothing. Only the ache under her ribs where panic had dug its hands.
An hour.
She had an hour to weld everything shut again. Tiran had given her that. Had sent her away rather than force her to face anyone with her mask already cracked.
He hadn’t called her weak. He hadn’t punished her for failing to stay composed.
He was on her side. Somehow, he was. She still found it hard to believe.
The sun had begun its climb, sharp and clean in the late morning sky. Light pressed down on the field in sheets. Warm on her face, hot along her sleeves, bright enough to blur the edges of the grass until it all shimmered faintly. A breeze dragged through the stalks, dry and warm, carrying the smell of earth and crushed clover.
She pressed Kion’s pouch to her stomach, lifted her other hand to cover her face, muttering curses at the foreign marks on her wrist, and dragged air into her lungs until breathing stopped hurting.
Inhale. Hold.
Exhale. Hold.
Again.
Empty it out. Pull herself backward, away from the trembling edges, until Silent Writ could take shape again and Lunlun could retreat. Until the break sealed. Until her promise steadied.
She just had to stay intact.
She just had to survive it.
She forced herself to walk the final stretch back. Mask barely stitched together, breath thin, hands still cold.
One hour. Enough to stand. Not enough to forget.
Her ID stone pulsed quietly when she stepped into the Hall, a soft reminder from Tiran that she was due back. It had been a long time since she last saw it glow. Last year maybe, before Relay Nine. Just before she almost walked back alone into Kesherra Basin, risking everything just to ask Arkwyn about the golden thread.
Her mind started to drift there, to that fragile curiosity. She shut it down. There were heavier things waiting.
The curtain was gone from the waiting room, and so were the snacks. Only the two contrasting succulents remained, small and absurd on the empty table. They felt like a quiet attempt at encouragement. It didn’t help.
She knocked. A muffled voice answered. She stepped inside.
All of them were already in place. Tiran at the center. On Writ's left, Pious stood behind the veiled Drenna. Across the table, Caedern lounged with that restrained smirk, Caustic beside him. And behind her, sitting alone near the door, Zyra. No sign of Noetic. The curtain, the snacks, all dismissed.
Writ stood in her place, the spot engraved into her body through repetition. Her spine locked straight. Her pulse thudded behind her ribs.
“Silent Writ.”
Any trace of warmth Tiran had shown earlier was gone.
“You have questioned your assigned subjects,” he said. “That part is done. Now we move to the next one.”
His next words cut deeper than any blade.
“Execution. Three subjects.”
Her stomach dropped.
He slid a set of papers toward her. She stepped forward, took them, and flipped through.
Three profiles. Same format as the interrogation brief.
Now with photographs.
Her lungs stalled.
She turned each page slowly. Knowing, hoping, futilely, for different names.
Rowan Brennan.
956275.
975910.
The last sheet had no background listed. Just a number, a division, an image. Nothing she didn’t already know.
She didn’t need to see the faces. Didn't even need to remember the exact numbers. The sequence alone hollowed her out.
She didn’t care about the first two. Rowan had even asked her to finish him quickly. But Junior...
It finally made sense. Why this task carried a Grade Four seal, why the weight of it pressed so sharply against her ribs now. It was never the questioning that made it dangerous. It was this. The part that demanded she stay intact while tearing herself apart. The part designed to break her heart, and then measure how cleanly she hid the pieces.
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
She kept her features still. She refused to give them anything. Not a twitch, not a falter.
Caedern watched her like a man enjoying a proof long anticipated. Quiet. Patient. Delighted.
She set the pages down. “Understood.”
Drenna folded her arms. “The Judge alone will guide the session. You were required to give your report tomorrow, verbal and written.”
Writ blinked once, her gaze sliding to Tiran.
“At least, that was the initial plan,” Drenna added, irritation sharp as she glared at Caedern.
Writ breathed out slowly, the smallest fracture of tension leaving her shoulders.
“We’ve discussed your situation,” Drenna continued, “and agreed to make adjustments.”
Writ’s fingers brushed the edge of her pocket.
“Caustic will guide the session. The Judge monitors. You will submit written report only.”
Writ nodded. “Roger.”
Tiran’s tone stayed official, cold. “Questions?”
Writ’s voice didn’t waver. “Method?”
“Your call.”
“Where are the subjects located?”
“Caustic will escort you.”
“When do I begin?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
She mirrored his flatness. “I’m ready.”
Her hands remained perfectly still. Her gaze never left him.
Caedern’s smirk widened. Zyra shifted behind her.
But something twisted under her ribs, slow and splintering.
This wasn’t Caedern’s game. Not a tease, not a choke, not a moment to push her.
This was the Accord. Neutral. Unmoving. They had marked the three for execution before she’d ever opened her mouth.
Her questions were never meant to change anything. She’d only been documenting the inevitable.
Tiran nodded once. “Begin. You may return when you’re finished.”
“Yes.”
She bowed her head, more out of necessity than respect, and stepped back.
Inside, she was already mourning.
For Junior. For the line in the sand she’d tried to draw. For everything she still believed she could do.
Caustic moved first. Caedern followed with leisurely satisfaction. She stepped after them. Calmer than she should be, steadier than the fracture in her chest allowed.
Calmer than the voice of Junior in her memory, saying words she never deserved.
Thanks to the guidance of my seniors.
Kion's POV
Hall of Accordance's Corridor, Brandholt City
What had he done?
Kion floated behind her, following Writ as she walked deeper and deeper underground.
Away from the bright facade of the Hall of Accordance and into the Shadow Accord’s domain.
The air thickened with stone dust and stale warding, and he pulled his barrier tighter, layering spell over spell until it felt like breathing inside glass.
Not to hide from the Accord.
To hide from himself.
His heart couldn’t bear the pressure; his magic faltered every few beats.
His shirt clung to him, soaked through with tears he didn’t remember shedding. Sobs tore out of him between breaths. Sharp enough that he nearly lost altitude.
He had to blink hard just to keep the world in view.
He’d followed her again today.
After he’d woven illusion into her skin.
Because bruises alone could be dismissed.
Finger marks could be explained away. Panic restraint, a scuffle, “necessary compliance.”
Even the wrist bruises meant nothing without a narrative.
But belt lines... those carried intention. Parallel. Deliberate. Weapon, not accident. Pain for punishment, not control.
So he crafted wounds that screamed exactly that. Sharp, recent, undeniable. In a pattern Black Quill could not shrug off.
He wanted the Accord to see him, see Caedern, as the threat.
He’d planned to leave the moment someone realized the fake wounds were there. Because that meant the plan worked, meant the abuse would be exposed, meant Writ would be protected.
He told himself she’d benefit from it. Thought she’d gain sympathy.
Thought it would pull the Accord to her side.
It didn’t.
He hadn’t helped her at all.
He’d used her fear, her body, her silence. Bent her into a story she didn’t consent to.
He made everything worse.
The realization stuck. Rotting. Quiet and relentless.
He’d let grief warp his judgement. He’d known it would strain her, and he still chose to do it.
He told himself she could handle it. He convinced himself the ends justified the means.
That’s what clawed him open now. Not the failure, not the fallout.
The truth hit like a fist.
He violated her autonomy.
He did to her what Caedern did.
Took her choice and called it protection.
And the guilt hits twice as hard because she believes they’re real.
It had felt like a good idea last night. Even this morning, when Tiran struck Caedern, he’d felt proud. Righteous, even.
But that triumph dissolved the moment the Accord’s logic came crashing down on him.
He didn’t understand them.
And maybe he never had.
He had forgotten how merciless they were to their own Shadows.
How deeply the belief ran that Writ was nothing more than a tool, something meant to be used and discarded.
Caustic had warned him that any unjustified punishment would trigger action.
It hadn’t been a lie. It had triggered action. Scrutiny, suspicion, pressure so suffocating it crushed her mask.
And Writ...
Writ never accused Caedern.
Not even after last night. Not even after he twisted “assessment” into something she still couldn’t name.
She didn’t think the marks proved what happened. She thought they proved she failed instead.
He should have known.
And he had the nerve to be surprised when she kept her mask intact.
The tether lashed him with every beat of her emotion. Her confusion, her trembling effort to stay composed, her terror of escalation.
He felt her composure splinter under Tiran’s questions.
But the moment she dropped to her knees, begging and pleading to stop the escalation.
That was what tore him open.
Her rawness was something he had only ever seen in the quiet safety of her room.
Never here. Never in a place where masks were law and weakness was fatal.
That vulnerability belonged to the nights she thought no one saw her. When only the dark, and him, were witness.
He had dragged it out into the open.
He had taken that from her.
He caused that.
And worst of all, he’d done it just as the Accord assigned her to execute the very person she was trying to protect.
He’d twisted the knife lodged in her ribs moments before the Accord drove it deeper.
Her blood was on his hands.
And it was too late to undo it.
Yes, his stunt had changed things. Caedern was no longer permitted to be alone with her.
They hadn’t told Writ, but that had been the outcome of the argument that followed Tiran’s return.
That was why Caustic had been added to what should have been a two-person task.
That had been his goal.
He achieved it.
But at what cost?
Every step Writ took echoed through the tether. Quiet, resigned. Carrying a veiled farewell she refused to show the world.
It felt like she was the one walking toward the gallows.
And that dread bled into him.
He clawed his chest, wishing physical pain could drown the ache lodged between his ribs.
It didn’t. His tears kept falling.
The deeper they went, the heavier the air became. Damp stone, humming wards, layers of surveillance brushing against his barrier.
He forced himself to focus. Any flicker might expose him. And if he was caught, Writ would fall with him.
After a turn, he saw a figure waiting by a door.
Noetic. One of the two who chased him days ago.
She noted their arrival with a nod. A few words were exchanged. “Everything’s prepared.”
Then a soft click, followed by a sharp brush against Kion’s senses. Another clairvoyance sweep.
They really did love spamming that.
Noetic cast something else. Kion curved himself out of its path, compressing his barrier until it stung.
She finished, then opened the door.
Caedern stepped through first.
Writ followed.
Then Caustic instructed Noetic to enter ahead of him. She obeyed.
Caustic moved to cross the threshold.
Kion dipped low, ready to follow in the narrow space Caustic’s passage left behind.
Then Caustic stopped.
Abrupt. Precise.
Kion nearly collided with him. Held only by instinct and a jolt of terror.
Caustic turned his head.
Right toward him.
His voice came as a whisper, cold and irrefutable.
“Leave.”
Kion froze.
The door shut in his face.
His breath caught.
A fresh wave of dread surged through him.
Caustic knew.
And soon, they all would.
What did that mean for Writ?
Would they trace this back to her?
Would she pay for his mistake?
Had he just thrown another boulder onto her shoulders?
How could he leave...
and wait...
knowing he might have crushed her again?