Kion’s POV

  Streets of Brandholt City, Bronze Concord

  Kion rechecked his illusion for the third time in two blocks. Or maybe the fourth.

  He brushed his palm down his ribs, as if the motion might steady the groggy thread of magic running through him.

  The layers over himself and Jura shimmered faintly, then settled again. At least the veil still held.

  The painkiller spell, though, was hitting him sideways. His control felt like casting through fog.

  Behind him, Jura hovered impatiently, wings twitching against the cloaked air.

  “Look, I really don’t think this is a good idea,” he repeated for the dozen times, his voice already climbing toward exasperation.

  “You can’t even stand up without Leta numbing half your body. We’ve flown this far already. What if you pass out? Or worse, get all rabid again?”

  “That’s why,” Kion said, misjudging a chimney and correcting too late, squinting toward the tether’s pull. “I changed my mind and brought you.”

  He didn’t add dragged you. Jura was smart enough to infer it.

  “You’re telling me,” Jura said slowly, “your original plan was to sneak out alone and not even tell me?”

  “You said you wouldn’t judge.”

  “Not when you just confessed you were going to let me deal with Seraithe’s wrath alone.”

  That reminded him of the first time Seraithe came back after he woke, glaring daggers as she informed him.

  Then in an exaggeratedly slow tone, told him that he had ripped her brother’s memento.

  As if he hadn’t already known.

  It was still a miracle she’d forgiven him at all.

  Kion shrugged at the air, careful not to jostle the illusion. “Then it’s a good thing you ended up coming with me.”

  A dramatic groan fluttered out of Jura. “You’re impossible.”

  Kion grinned at that, small and crooked, then forced himself back to tracing the tether.

  Its pulse flicked under his ribs again, sharper this time. His breath hitched.

  Painkiller or not, the thing stabbed whenever it pleased, sending waves of nausea up his throat. Leta had warned him about that. Leta had warned him about everything.

  She had been checking on him every night, always with Seraithe in tow. Fixing the damage. Reasserting the suppressant. Muttering that he needed rest.

  Seraithe backed her every time, forbidding him from work entirely and fending off Veska’s attempts to drag him back into duty.

  He would have paid silver to avoid witnessing that argument. Veska and Seraithe both had tongues made of knives.

  Still, he needed the time. He would never get anything done with his mind pulled taut by the tether’s constant coiling, demanding attention even beneath the numbing spells.

  He was grateful Seraithe had decided that for him.

  They descended toward the outskirts when the tether’s pull steadied, guiding them over a residential quarter. Kion halted midair on reflex.

  Below them stretched a sprawling estate.

  Large garden, wide grounds, a perimeter wall far taller than anything in a normal Brandholt neighborhood.

  Even Lurean’s garden would look humble next to this.

  How in the stars did Writ end up here?

  “Your tethered lives here?” Jura asked, crossing his arms mid-flight. “Damn, she’s well off. And the plants, ugh, the arrangement is wrong. Wrong like... ‘someone with wards stacked to high heavens’ wrong. You sure it’s safe?”

  “We’ll be fine.” Kion layered another veil over them, light as dust, the same trick he’d once used on Seraithe.

  Their presence thinned to a speck, more than he ever used while moving through the Accord building.

  “If something goes south,” he added quietly, “leave without me.”

  “Like hell I’m doing that.” Jura’s wings flicked as he followed him down. “Hit the ground first. I need to feel the soil.”

  “Fine.”

  The ward brushed them as they crossed it, like static sliding over skin. Jura shivered violently.

  Kion blinked. His own magic recognized something knotted into the perimeter.

  Another layer, foreign and precise.

  They had illusions folded over the ward itself? Why?

  From here, nothing looked amiss. The garden lay empty, just as it appeared beyond the perimeter.

  Kion dismissed the thought.

  Not his business. Not now.

  He hit the grass unevenly, boots skidding before he caught himself.

  Jura landed cleanly beside him, knees bending as if the ground had welcomed him.

  They stood in an open patch, clear of other growth.

  Beyond it, the surrounding plants glistened with toxins even Kion could spot from afar. Neither of them risked stepping closer.

  Jura crouched immediately, palms on the earth. Magic rippled under his fingers, spreading outward.

  He bent deeper, brow creasing, before he finally clicked his tongue.

  “Tell me your tethered isn't one of the people they keep underground.”

  “They have underground?” Kion pointed vaguely at the second storey with his thumb. “No. She’s up there.”

  As if it knew it was being spoken of, the tether stabbed.

  Kion exhaled, relieved that Leta’s magic dulled its fangs.

  “Good.” Jura blew out a breath. “Because even if you bribed me with revival potions, I’m not digging through this. The ground is unbelievably spicy.”

  “That bad?”

  A curt nod.

  “But the plants look... fine,” Kion said, gesturing vaguely.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “Because they only use the topsoil.” Jura scowled, brushing dirt from his fingertips. “Below that, they shoved in clay to—”

  The gate creaked.

  Both of them nearly levitated in place.

  Jura seized Kion’s arm and yanked him behind one of the patio pillars, shoving them into the shadow.

  Kion whispered, “You remember we’re invisible, right?”

  “I’m not risking you fainting and leaving me visible alone,” Jura hissed back.

  Fair. Kion shrugged.

  They peeked around the pillar just as Tiran stepped inside the garden, closing the gate with one hand while carrying a large paper bag with the other.

  His boots crunched deliberately on the gravel, loud enough that Kion suspected he wanted to be heard.

  A moment later, the door opened.

  The woman who stepped out had that same sure gait Kion recognized from beyond the gate days ago. Without hood this time.

  Avenell? Av—something. Writ had said her name once.

  Jura nudged him. “That her?”

  “No. Not her.” Kion didn’t take his eyes off the woman.

  His vision blurred, he dragged it back into focus.

  Tiran met her halfway across the patio.

  They stood close. Too close.

  Jura’s wings flicked in confusion.

  Tiran lowered his voice, asking, “How’s Writ?”

  The question hit Kion like a thrown stone. Jura’s hand tightened on his shoulder, steadying him when he unconsciously leaned forward.

  “She vomited all of her breakfast today,” the woman said.

  “All of it?” A crease formed between Tiran’s brows.

  Kion watched, breath caught.

  She nodded. “Everything."

  “How do you know?”

  “I followed her after breakfast,” the woman said, leaning in close. “She forgot to bring her water back upstairs. I thought I could return it quietly.”

  She exhaled. “I heard her retching behind the bathroom door instead.”

  “Did she know you heard?”

  “Maybe.” A tired sigh. “I was too shocked to sneak away.”

  She hesitated. “The bread and broth don’t work anymore. She barely touches them now. Yesterday she ate three eggs. Two the day before. Maybe less. I don’t know if those stayed down either.”

  Kion’s stomach dropped.

  Three eggs a day wasn’t enough.

  Not even close. Not for a human.

  Tiran’s sigh was quiet, but real. He slid his free arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.

  Kion blinked, stunned.

  Was that... affection?

  From Tiran?

  The woman wrapped her arms around Tiran’s waist without hesitation.

  “She was doing so well last week,” she murmured. “She ate without coaxing. She talked first. She argued. She asked questions. Roots, she asked me. She barely spoke to me before she left seven years ago.”

  Tiran tapped her back in a slow, steady rhythm.

  Kion pressed both lips tight, trying to keep his shock contained.

  Jura shifted beside him, eyes darting between the pair and Kion’s twitching face, clearly entertained.

  Writ had called this woman “Tiran’s housekeeper, sort of.”

  Sort of didn’t cover anything he was seeing now.

  Tiran finally broke the quiet. “I failed to prevent it.”

  “Oh, no you don’t.” She cupped his cheeks between both palms and gave a light slap, more scolding than striking. “I already have someone drowning in self-loathing so hard she can’t keep food down. I’m not letting you slip into that slope too.”

  A soft chuckle escaped Tiran. Actual warmth flickered in his eyes.

  Kion felt his jaw tighten, expression pulling sharp in a way that made Jura’s wings twitch with barely contained amusement.

  “It’s not your fault. We’re not at fault,” she whispered, leaning in until their noses touched. “They’re never fair to Treshfold-graduates like us, anyway.”

  Kion’s thoughts stuttered.

  Wait.

  She continued, voice low but firm. “And a judge was there when she reported. You know you couldn’t just sweep a compromised mission under the rug. Not with the vultures watching.”

  Wait. Wait. Wait.

  Tiran. Treshfold-graduate?

  The same thing Writ had called Treshfold-made?

  That didn’t fit.

  Every Shadow Kion had ever encountered carried the mark in their name, an adjective bound to a noun. A designation, not a choice.

  Silent Writ.

  Pious Ink.

  Noetic Ink.

  Caustic... Ink? Maybe.

  Even the woman—Knell? Bell? She fit the shape.

  The Accord issued other names, of course. Civilian skins, meant to pass unnoticed.

  But those were never what they were called when it mattered.

  But Tiran was different.

  No designation. No constructed pairing. Not even the shape of one.

  Just a name. Human-plain.

  Had Kion misheard all these time?

  Was it Tyrant, not Tiran? Another graduate, or a rank?

  Or was there some exception he didn’t know, some reason Tiran had been allowed to keep a name?

  And also—

  Tiran hadn’t escalated Relay Nine.

  Hadn’t stacked cruelty on cruelty.

  Hadn’t treated Writ like a disposable tool.

  That didn’t fit either.

  What is happening?

  She guided his face back to hers.

  “Now. Repeat after me. I’m not at fault.”

  Tiran obeyed softly. “I’m not at fault.”

  Kion’s mouth fell open.

  Jura’s brows lifted. Half approval, half unmistakable delight at Kion’s unraveling composure.

  “I’m doing my best with the hand I’ve been dealt,” she continued.

  Tiran echoed, eyes on her. “I’m doing my best with the hand I’ve been dealt.”

  “Good.” She leaned in and pecked him quickly. “Thanks for bringing what I asked.”

  “You sure you don’t need me inside?” Tiran asked, handing her the paper bag.

  Knell took it from him and hugged it to her chest. “Don’t. She freezes up around you.”

  She hesitated, then added more quietly, “I just need to vent a bit. I thought she’d be better. Not a near repeat of her old state. The contrast from last week threw me.”

  Tiran rubbed a hand over his face. “She’s rattled by the execution.” He exhaled. “It confirmed she omitted something in her Relay Nine report. Probably covering for the Verdict Wings boy. Anyone would be shattered if ordered to kill someone they wanted to protect.”

  They knew.

  Knell glanced toward the gate, then lowered her voice. “Make sure no one hears any of this.”

  “I know,” Tiran said.

  They covered for her.

  Kion slapped a hand over his own mouth, panic spiking. Jura sucked in a sharp breath beside him.

  Tiran didn’t look away from her.

  She read something unspoken in his gaze and softened.

  She smoothed his coat collar, voice low. “You’d have to kill me first. Before you ended yourself.”

  A pause.

  “Unless you’d rather I be tortured to death instead.”

  Kion blinked hard. The sudden pivot, from tenderness to threat, made his stomach roll.

  Was this normal for them? For Treshfold-graduates?

  Jura froze. His wings snapped flat.

  He whispered, “What. Did. She. Just. Say?” eyes wide.

  Kion elbowed him lightly.

  Tiran answered dryly, “Right. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Both of them laughed. As if the words weren’t murderous at all.

  “I’ll return to the hall,” Tiran said.

  “Safe trip,” she replied. “What do you want for dinner?”

  “I’m eating with Peripheral and Glyphfire tonight. I’ll be late.”

  “Bummer.” She kissed his hand lightly.

  Tiran brushed her knuckles with his lips, then stepped back.

  “Stay strong. For us.”

  “I will,” he answered without turning.

  His footsteps crossed the gravel, muted now and deliberately light, until even that sound faded.

  Knell. Yes, Knell. The name finally fit.

  She stood watching until he vanished beyond the wall. Only then did she turn, hug the bag close to her chest, and open the front door.

  Kion didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Jura’s wrist and surged forward.

  He misjudged the speed, wobbled, and Jura caught him instead.

  They rushed the open door together.

  “Come on,” Kion muttered. “Don’t risk vents in places like this.”

  Jura flashed after him, muttering, “You say that like you’ve survived one.”

  “Don’t even mention it.”

  Inside, the door clicked shut behind Knell.

  Kion’s thoughts churned like water pulled through a crack.

  Their voices lingered.

  The soft tone. The careful touch. The concern they shared.

  Not just for Writ, but for each other. For all their kind.

  Treshfold-graduates.

  Not “made.”

  Not “tools.” Not “consumables.”

  Human.

  It made something in Kion’s chest ache.

  Relief. Fear. Hope twisted too tight.

  Writ had people, plural, on her side.

  Quietly guarding her. Balancing impossible roles. Risking their own safety.

  Caring for her even when she didn’t believe she deserved any of it.

  She wasn’t alone at all.

  Knell continued deeper into the house. The walls, the wards, everything felt like a fortress built around his tethered. His unraveling tethered.

  Kion followed, every step tight with the familiar pull in his ribs, the tether dragging his attention forward, beating in time with his pulse.

  Even through the numbing fog, he felt it clearly.

  He wished, stars, he wished he could keep her intact.

  Even as the tether pounded its frantic rhythm, demanding he think of nothing but her.