Her body had already begun to protest under the weight of a full day spent moving without rest. Now her hand followed suit.

  Hours had passed since she returned to her room. The house had long since settled into its night sounds. The faint creak of wood cooling, the distant chirr of crickets, an owl calling somewhere beyond the window. The world had slowed. Writ had not. She kept writing, letter by letter, chasing a deadline that did not exist but felt no less urgent for it.

  The logs covering the days she had been summoned took the longest. Those pages demanded precision. Every line required calculation, weighing what could be recorded against what must remain absent. More time passed with the pen hovering than moving, her thoughts circling before committing anything to paper.

  The free days she treated differently. She filled them quickly. Read, meditate, exercise, buy meals. Again and again, stacking routine atop routine. There was little else she could record while keeping herself confined to the inn. She knew the innkeeper had been consulted. She knew Tiran would notice if her entries suddenly suggested wandering. Discrepancies invited questions. She could not afford questions.

  Even so, her writing began to falter. Her thoughts lagged behind her hand, then stumbled over what she had already written. She flipped back through the pages, comparing entries, ensuring one day did not echo too closely the last.

  The sameness frightened her.

  She forced herself to slow. To focus.

  Too focused.

  So focused she failed to hear anything until the soft knock sounded at her door.

  She startled, muscles locking as if caught mid-crime.

  “Writ. It’s late.” Knell’s voice came through the door, neutral and controlled. A pause, then, “Can I come in?”

  She’d been caught.

  Writ shoved the pen back into its holder and yanked the drawer open, hands clumsy with haste. Papers were gathered and stuffed inside without order. She closed the drawer as quietly as she could, but the dull thud still sounded too loud. She flinched at it.

  Only then did she answer.

  “Y—” Her throat scraped painfully. She swallowed, cleared it, tried again. “Yes.”

  She stood, turning toward the desk as if she’d only just finished pouring herself water. The chair scraped softly against the floor, a sound she cursed immediately, just as the door opened and Knell stepped inside.

  Knell crossed the threshold and took in the room with a single sweep of her gaze. The bed. The rumpled blanket. The saucer with the pills waiting beside the water pitcher.

  Then the desk.

  The drawer, where the corners of several papers still protruded, betraying her haste.

  Writ raised her glass and drank, eyes closing as if savoring the water. She focused on swallowing, on keeping her breathing even. She did not look at Knell as Knell drew a long, silent breath. One that settled over the room like judgment.

  When Knell spoke again, her eyes were on Writ, steady and expectant.

  “You don’t need to finish tonight,” she said calmly. “And you don’t need to invent days to fill space.”

  The words landed softly and struck hard. Writ froze. The meaning sank in, sharp and immediate.

  Knell knew.

  What if she reported it to Tiran? How would he respond?

  But what came next wasn’t what Writ had anticipated.

  “If a day is blank, it stays blank,” Knell continued, as if clarifying something ordinary. “If memory is missing, you write that it’s missing. That’s still a log.”

  It wasn’t a reprimand, it was worse. Allowance. As if failing to fill the page was not a violation. As if omission itself could be acceptable.

  Her jaw tightened. The rule was different than she’d assumed. She registered it, stored it, adjusted. The hollow feeling that followed was harder to categorize.

  She forced herself not to look down, not to fold inward, and nodded instead.

  “You’re done for tonight,” Knell said. The tone left no room for argument.

  Writ’s fingers curled against her palm.

  Knell’s gaze shifted to the saucer. She tipped her head toward it. “Take it now.”

  Writ moved on reflex. She poured water into the glass she had just dried, lifted the pill, swallowed. The familiar bitterness clung to her tongue.

  Knell nodded once. Approval given, matter settled. Then, “Lie down.”

  Writ blinked.

  Her body turned from the desk before her mind caught up. Her eyes drifted to the bed. To the floor beside it. To the patch beneath the window where she had curled herself night after night, choosing distance over comfort.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Before she could decide, Knell spoke again. “The bed is fine. It's allowed. I’m here. You can lay on your side if your back still hurts”

  So that was Knell’s explanation for her sleeping on the floor. Logical enough. She should have used it sooner.

  Writ walked to it as if pulled by a string, ignoring the quiet voice in her head that warned her away. She climbed onto the mattress, movements stiff and uncertain, set her head on the pillow, and lowered herself onto her side, facing Knell, careful to move the way someone protecting a healing injury would.

  She tugged the blanket up as if it might hide her from scrutiny.

  “You’re safe here,” Knell said. “No one will barge in tonight. I’m keeping watch.”

  Writ looked up, confusion and panic tangled tight in her chest.

  Knell moved the chair from the desk to the window, turning it to face the door, and sat. When she looked back at Writ, there was the faintest smile on her face as she tilted her head.

  “Close your eyes,” she said gently. “Sleep.”

  Writ obeyed.

  As she lay there, waiting for the sleep aid to take hold, understanding crept in piece by piece.

  Knell hadn’t punished her. Knell had given her information she didn’t know. Knell had told her she was safe. That no one would barge in. That she was keeping watch.

  Knell was waiting for her to sleep. That had never happened before.

  Why now?

  Who was Knell watching? Writ herself, or something else entirely? Something Knell thought Writ feared? Something that might barge in if left unchecked? Why would anyone—

  Her thought stalled.

  She swallowed and turned her attention to her breathing.

  A low hum filled the room, soft as a feather. A tune Writ didn’t recognize, carried without words. It eased the tightness behind her ribs, slowed her breathing, loosened her jaw.

  The sound felt... familiar. Not the melody, the moment. The circumstances. Impossibly so. She knew that made no sense. The feeling lingered anyway.

  The sleep aid worked faster than usual. Or maybe she was simply too tired to resist it tonight. She let herself follow the pull.

  Knell had told her to, after all.

  The last words reached her as she drifted, so gentle she wasn’t sure they were real.

  “Sleep tight, Writ. Get well soon.”

  Serene Knell’s POV

  Tiran’s house, Brandholt City

  Knell rolled her eyes the moment she stepped into their bedroom.

  She had expected it, and still, there he was. Hunched over the desk, shoulders drawn in, lamplight caught in the familiar slope of his back. Ink, paper, maps. The same posture she had just left behind down the hall. For a brief, tired second, the image overlaid itself with Writ as Knell had imagined her before the knock: rigid, stubborn, writing as if the world would end if she stopped.

  She clicked her tongue and crossed the room. “You too, Aust?”

  Tiran turned his head just enough to look at her, eyes unfocused from hours of staring at lines too small to matter to anyone but the Accord. “What?”

  “Do you really have to do that tonight?” She planted a hand on her hip, annoyance sharp and unfiltered. “This late? Today’s your day off, and they already took you all day. Now they’re taking your rest too?”

  He sighed, long and tired, and turned back to the documents. “The Head suspects someone in Bronze council has the flower sample. He wants it tracked as soon as possible.”

  “Ugh.” Knell tipped her head back, staring at the ceiling. “As if we haven’t lost enough people trying to locate that cursed flower.”

  “The Head commanded it, Rene,” Tiran said, the emphasis quiet but firm, as he shifted another page into place.

  “Yeah. Fine. Alright.” She exhaled heavily and turned toward the wardrobe. “Obey or die. I know. Heard that one plenty.”

  She pulled out a set of pajamas. “I’m just...” Her voice softened despite herself. “I’m tired of hearing him toy with people’s lives like they’re markers on a map.”

  “I know,” Tiran replied without turning. “We all are.”

  Fabric whispered as she changed. “Is this because of Writ?”

  “Yes.” He rolled the pen between his fingers. “Her session with Rowan brushed too close to the Glitter. Close enough to stir the Head’s standing concerns about Bronze.”

  Knell reached for the small towel on the hook. “How?”

  A beat. “Didn’t Rowan stay silent through every session? With us. With the judges?”

  “That’s the problem.” Papers shifted softly. “No one can explain why.”

  He lifted a report, Writ’s handwriting unmistakable, and skimmed it. “Rowan was silent. Avoidant. Barely spoke in any prior session. Even afterward.”

  A pause.

  “Why he spoke to Writ became a recurring debate. It prompted a second look.” His thumb slid the page back into the stack. “Eventually, they gave up on answers and marked him for disposal.”

  Knell hummed, noncommittal, and stepped into the bathroom.

  Tiran returned the report to its place and resumed the document he’d paused over. The room settled into a familiar quiet. The kind born not of peace, but of routine.

  Knell emerged a moment later, face damp, and crossed to the vanity. She dabbed salve onto her fingers and smoothed it over her cheeks with slow, careful strokes. The scent grounded her, if only a little.

  She was nearly finished when a thought snagged. “Anyway, Aust.”

  He turned his head fully this time.

  She continued massaging her cheek, eyes on her reflection. “Do you remember the last time Writ submitted her daily log?”

  Tiran stilled. His fingers tapped against the desk as he counted backward in his head. The silence stretched.

  “Last month,” he said finally. “I think.”

  “Roots.” Knell looked at him fully now, exhaustion sharpening her gaze. “And you never reminded her? Not once?”

  “No.” He shifted in his chair. “I forgot. I’ll ask her tomorrow.”

  “Don’t.” The word came out flat, immediate. “Not tomorrow. She’ll panic. She just tried to rush all of it tonight.”

  “Ah...”

  Silence settled between them. Thick, heavy, loaded with things neither of them wanted to say aloud. The only sound was the lamp’s faint hum and the rustle of papers as Tiran straightened a stack that no longer needed straightening.

  “Well,” Knell said at last, working a little oil into her palms. “Good thing it was never an Accord requirement to begin with. And it’s... nice knowing she’s been doing alright even without it.” Her mouth tightened. “Before the execution, of course.”

  “Sorry,” Tiran said quietly.

  “It’s alright.” She spread the oil along her forearms, then her elbows. “You’ve been drowning in work. We kind of gambled on it anyway. Hoping journaling would help her stay grounded. It did what it was meant to.”

  She paused, then added, “I’m reinforcing that now.”

  Tiran nodded once. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Please do.”

  He hesitated, fingers curling against papers. “You stopped her, right?”

  “Yes.” Knell moved to her legs, rubbing the oil in with slow, methodical pressure. “I told her to sleep. Stayed until she did.” A faint, wry smile touched her mouth. “I don’t know what she needs anymore. So I did what I did back then. I’m glad it still works.”

  “I leave her to you,” Tiran said.

  “And I leave us to you,” Knell replied without missing a beat.

  She finished her nightly ritual and straightened, joints cracking softly as she walked back to the desk. She leaned down, pressed a brief kiss to his cheek, and smiled. “I’ll turn in first. Good night, Aust. Only do what needs doing, and then sleep.”

  He caught her hand as she turned, tugged her closer, and returned the kiss just as gently. “Good night, Rene. I will.”

  He let her go. She waved once, small and familiar, then crossed to the bed. The lamp on her side clicked off, plunging half the room into shadow.

  Knell lay back and drew a long breath, letting the day finally loosen its grip. As she closed her eyes, she murmured a quiet prayer to the roots, that the Accord would not take any more than it already had.