Kion’s POV

  Lurean’s House, Brandholt City

  Kion slipped through the open window of Lurean’s house with more care than grace.

  His wings responded a half-beat too late, flight sluggish and uneven under the lingering weight of Leta’s spell.

  Seraithe still insisted on Leta casting it every day, despite Leta’s repeated lectures about the side effects it could have on Kion.

  He agreed without protest. It was the only thing that kept him functional. Kept him sane.

  It dulled the worst of it, but it also blunted everything else. Sensation. Balance. Control.

  He had learned how to work around that dullness, though.

  Learned how to compensate, how to land without wobbling too much, how to pretend the heaviness in his limbs wasn’t there.

  Enough that Seraithe had deemed him presentable and allowed him to join lunch with Glitterstorm without escort.

  That alone felt like an achievement worth framing.

  He barely had time to orient himself before Fenwick noticed.

  Fenwick gasped so sharply it sounded painful, jerking upright and pointing at him as if Kion were a ghost that had wandered in uninvited.

  “Guys. I saw Kion here. Is he real, or are my eyes playing tricks on me?”

  Mirev didn’t even bother looking up from the sofa. She stayed sprawled there, legs tucked under her, lazily munching on a honey-almond biscuit that shed crumbs onto her shirt.

  “He’s real,” she chirped around a bite. “Congrats. You’re not senile yet.”

  Fenwick scoffed and flicked a napkin at her.

  Mirev squeaked and promptly rolled off the sofa to avoid it, laughter spilling out of her as she hit the floor in an undignified heap.

  Kion huffed despite himself.

  “Welcome back, Kion. Feeling better?” Lurean asked, her voice warm as ever. Without rising from her seat, she poured tea into an empty cup she’d already set aside, as though she’d expected him. “I came by yesterday to the office, but they said you were sick.”

  “Yeah. I was... unwell,” Kion admitted, heat creeping into his face.

  He folded his wings in and landed on the edge of the table, careful not to disturb anything, then tilted the cup Lurean slid toward him with telekinetic.

  “Could barely move from the bed. Good thing Seraithe found me when she did.”

  He took a small sip. The tea was mild, grounding.

  “Way better now,” he added, then grimaced. “Still have to rely on numbing magic to function, though.”

  “You guys have numbing magic?” Mirev said, already back on the sofa and reaching for another treat, this time a sugar-dusted crescent cookie from the jar. “Man. It sucks to be human.”

  “Try having your house destroyed by a woodpecker,” Kion shot back, some of his old ease slipping into his tone. “Or having your food stash stolen by a squirrel. You’ll change your mind, then.”

  Warm, small laughter filled the room, familiar enough to ache. Nostalgic, in a quiet way.

  He paused, then glanced between them. “Do you think anyone would glue my wings for... being suddenly missing without notice again?”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Fenwick said easily. “You’ll survive the top. Seraithe vouched for you and spoke in your stead, after all.”

  Mirev nodded along, far too enthusiastically.

  “Veska, however...” Mirev added, dragging the pause out and exchanging a look with Fenwick. Both of them were barely containing their laughter.

  Kion groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Lurean chuckled softly, shaking her head.

  “You should’ve seen Veska’s debate with Seraithe,” Fenwick went on, leaning forward with bright eyes. “A once-in-a-lifetime experience. Even Euri paused his novel to listen.”

  Mirev poured herself a full glass of water and downed it in one go. “Shame I wasn’t there. If I could turn back time, I’d do it just to witness that moment.”

  “Ugh. No,” Kion said fervently. “I’d rather not be pressed flat by the sheer existence of both of them in the same room, thanks.”

  “Oh, they wouldn’t press you,” Mirev replied immediately. “For sure. No doubt.”

  “And... why is that?” Kion asked, already regretting it.

  “Because you’d be split in half instead,” she said brightly. “They fought like your wife confronting a mistress.”

  Fenwick burst out laughing. Mirev joined him without mercy. Lurean covered her mouth, shoulders shaking with restrained amusement.

  Kion winced.

  “Please don’t ever mention that again,” he begged. “Especially not in front of Veska.”

  As if summoned by name alone, the entrance door clicked open without a knock or warning. Veska stepped inside, arms loaded with bags heavy enough to creak, boxes of food stacked precariously inside them.

  “Mention what?” she asked flatly.

  Kion flustered instantly. “I— It’s Mirev. Not me. I’m not involved.”

  Fenwick sprang up and hurried over, taking a few of the bags from Veska. Together, they started unloading the boxes one by one.

  Veska fixed her gaze on Mirev, who was attempting to sip from an empty glass with exaggerated innocence.

  “What did you say, Mirev?” Veska asked.

  The room went dead quiet.

  Lurean smiled too wide, the expression barely contained. Fenwick tried, and failed, to school his face into something neutral, a snort escaping him before he could stop it.

  “Uuhhhh... nothing,” Mirev said.

  “Is it really nothing, grandma?” Veska pressed.

  Lurean glanced at Mirev, thoughtful.

  “Well,” she said slowly, “I wonder...”

  Mirev blinked rapidly at her, eyes wide, silently begging. Veska’s gaze bounced between the two of them, sharp and assessing.

  Fenwick scooted closer to Kion, lowering himself and resting an elbow on the table as he leaned in.

  “Which one do you think she is,” he whispered, “the wife or the—”

  Kion felt something swell painfully in his throat.

  The tether. It's alive.

  He jerked back from Fenwick, wings snapping half-open before he forced them still.

  “Don’t drag me into this,” he muttered, already pulling his human glamour into place, hiding the way the tether would take hold soon enough.

  The spell lagged, sluggish and uncooperative. Instead of the composed human face he wore in council chambers, a larger, rough-edged projection of his true form flickered into place. Less refined, easier to hold, and fraying under strain.

  It faltered. He clenched his jaw and forced the image back into place. “Go away.”

  "Oh, come on!" Fenwick teased.

  When he was sure the glamour held and his strength would last, he retreated into the kitchen under the pretense of being useful.

  He gathered a tall stack of plates, their cool weight steady against his palms.

  He considered hovering them to the dining room, habit tugging at him. Tried it for a few seconds.

  The magic slipped, unfocused, the stack trembling just enough to make his stomach clench.

  He aborted the idea and carried them by hand instead. Better not to risk more scolding by shattering Lurean’s plates.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Behind him, Mirev and Fenwick’s voices rose and fell, punctuated by Veska’s sharp complaints and Lurean’s gentler attempts at order.

  Kion closed his eyes for a moment and breathed it in. The noise, the warmth, the ordinary chaos.

  He had missed this more than he’d ever admitted to himself.

  More, even, than the fairy community he’d thought he would miss most.

  Nausea crawled through his gut without warning, sharp and insistent. He swallowed hard, bracing a hand against the counter, willing his body not to betray him now.

  As he did, he brushed the tether softly, carefully, letting it know he hadn’t forgotten.

  Not about it.

  Not about them.

  When he returned to the dining room, plates in hand, he slipped back into the cheerfulness as best as he could, smiling when expected, nodding at the right moments.

  All the while, he kept a careful peace with his throat as it tried, again and again, to reject the liquid he didn’t even drunk.

  The meal ended the way it had begun. Warm, loud, and crowded with easy laughter. Plates clinked as they were passed along, crumbs brushed from sleeves, cups gathered and carried back toward the kitchen in loose, uncoordinated trips.

  For a while, Kion let himself stay inside that noise. Let it fill the hollow places the painkiller spell couldn’t quite reach.

  Then the laughter thinned.

  Chairs settled. Hands found the table. The air shifted. Subtly at first, then unmistakably. Until the space around the dining table felt heavier, weighted with purpose.

  Veska was the one who stood. She straightened, fingers flattening the paper against the table.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt the fun,” she said, gaze sweeping the room, “but our meet-up today has to end in a Glittery meeting. We need to make sure we’re all updated. As always.”

  Kion felt his shoulders tighten on instinct.

  These meetings were familiar, yet they still pressed on him every time.

  “We’re sadly still missing members today,” Veska continued, her voice precise. “The previous clause still applies. It’s too dangerous for us to be seen together too often. Even if, technically, we’re all working under the same council executive.”

  No one argued. No one needed to.

  “I met Fairy Dust before coming here,” she went on. “He instructed me on what to inform you, and I’ll be returning there immediately after. So I’ll take the lead today.” Her eyes paused on each of them in turn. “Any objections?”

  There were none.

  Fenwick shook his head. Mirev murmured no. Lurean’s answer was a soft, steady nod. Kion followed suit, though his stomach had already begun its slow, unpleasant churn.

  Veska exhaled softly, eyes dropping to the paper in her hand.

  “Before we begin,” she said, “there’s one update you should all be aware of.”

  The table stilled.

  “The last migration attempt failed,” Veska continued. “Shiny Fork didn’t reach the Alven Cross handoff.”

  No one spoke.

  Kion felt his stomach dip, that slow, sickening roll he’d come to recognize too well. Another tally mark carved into the silence.

  “They missed the window,” Veska said, folding the paper once, then smoothing it flat again, as if the motion might steady her. “No meeting. No leafy word passed on.”

  Here’s a tightened, smoother polish that keeps the restraint and sharpens the character beats:

  Across the table, Fenwick’s jaw tightened. His fingers curled around the edge of his chair, knuckles whitening before he forced them still.

  Lurean lowered her gaze, hands folding in her lap. Her back straightened by a fraction in quiet mourning, as though she were counting the absent by instinct alone. Mirev mirrored the motion beside her.

  Veska lifted her head. “Three days have elapsed. We don’t know yet whether it was interception, collapse, or something worse.”

  The uncertainty didn’t soften the weight of what it usually meant.

  A breath passed. Then Veska straightened, shoulders setting as if bracing under armor she’d learned to wear too well.

  “Now,” she said, voice carefully steadied, “to the matter of the flower.”

  “Thanks to Little One’s information,” Veska nodded toward Kion, then Lurean, “Glow Orb has managed to convince several trusted people to attempt creating the cure.”

  The word still didn’t sit right. Cure. It carried too much hope for how fragile everything was.

  “But,” Veska added, not letting that hope linger, “before we even start, we need to ensure it can be handled safely, without endangering anyone.”

  Mirev folded her hands on the table, expression attentive and uncharacteristically still.

  “Glimmer Front and Fairy Dust have secured a location in Kesherra,” Veska continued. “We’ll move the specimen there when we begin the first attempt. Estimated timeline: next week.”

  Kion swallowed. Next week felt both impossibly close and painfully far.

  Veska didn’t pause. “We’ll also review all existing and provisional mitigation measures. Filtration, dispersal dampeners. Anything that interacts with ambient mana or residue. Even partial suppression could buy us time.”

  “For the first attempt,” Veska’s tone stayed even. “direct contact will be handled by a returning migrant. We’ll refer to her as Scatter Light. She was under Glow Orb before retirement. I believe most of you know her.”

  Lurean tilted her head, something distant and soft passing across her features. Nostalgia, perhaps, or quiet respect.

  “Glow Orb will be on standby in the same room,” Veska went on, “maintaining the barrier around both of them. Sparklefish will be positioned nearby, just in case.” She paused, breath measured. “Because the two of you don’t hold official roles, and because we can’t delegate this yet, I’ll need to rely on you both. I’m sorry.”

  Lurean said without hesitation, “That’s alright, dear.”

  Mirev nodded once. “Noted.”

  “Scatter Light’s return must not be known outside this circle,” Veska said. “Once the site is active, she’ll be confined there. Sparklefish, Glow Orb, and I will rotate supply deliveries.”

  Another nod from Mirev. “Understood.”

  Lurean followed suit.

  "From now on, no more walk-ins. Anyone coming in has to be vetted by the Seamstresses first. And we’re shutting down the library shift. We don’t need it anymore.”

  Fenwick gave a small, satisfied clap. He’d never stopped protesting the night shifts alone in Arkwyn’s library.

  “Featherglint,” Veska added, turning her attention to Fenwick, “you’ll need to widen your net. The moment you hear anything, inform me or Fairy Dust directly. No comms.”

  “Roger,” Fenwick replied, all trace of his usual casualness gone.

  Veska fell silent, eyes lingering on the list in her hand longer than necessary. The paper trembled faintly between her fingers.

  “And Little One,” she said at last.

  Kion felt the word land like a weight on his chest. He lifted his gaze, throat tight.

  “Are you sure about this?” Veska asked quietly.

  Veska didn’t explain further. Mirev and Fenwick exchanged curious looks.

  Kion knew exactly what Veska meant.

  “Yes,” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice.

  “We’re already asking enough of them just to process it,” he said. “I’m not risking anyone else for this.”

  Her stare held him for a long moment.

  “We’ll talk about it again when the first dose is stable,” she said finally.

  “I’m not changing my mind.”

  Because changing his mind meant another field left silent. Another scatter of wings with no one left to count them. He dragged in a breath and forced the image back before it could take hold.

  Veska exhaled. Around the table, the others looked at him, quiet, heavy.

  Her fingers tapped once against the paper.

  “One more thing related to the cure,” she said. “We got another letter from Tir Rynhaar.”

  The table looked at her almost in sync.

  “The phrasing hasn’t changed in a year,” Veska said. “Formal. Almost neutral.”

  Her fingers pressed lightly against the paper.

  “That’s not how they sounded before. For three years, every letter was urgent. Frantic, even. The letter that came with the sample was no different.”

  “Then, after we confirmed it...” She shook her head slightly. “The tone began to smooth out, slowly, until now.” Her gaze sharpened. “And we’ve heard nothing about the queen making a full recovery.”

  “If she had,” Veska added quietly, “they wouldn’t keep that to themselves.”

  Kion remembered reading them. How the panic had bled through the ink, the strokes uneven, pressed too hard into the page. The king’s hand, unmistakable.

  He had seen that hand long before the queen fell ill. The frantic letters had been the same, only shaken by fear.

  The newer ones were similar. And yet... something about them sat wrong with him. He couldn’t have said what.

  “So either they stopped panicking for a reason...” She looked at each of them in turn. “Or someone prefers that we believe they did.”

  The table stilled. Mirev shifted in her seat.

  “Featherglint is looking into it,” she added. “For now, assume nothing.”

  Fenwick nodded. The others followed suit.

  “And now,” she continued, voice lowering, “about the dead. Featherglint, you said you had findings.”

  Fenwick stood as Veska sat, adjusting his sleeves as if buying himself a second.

  “To be honest,” he said, “there isn’t much of a lead. I found a list of people who reported a royal bastard, but no records of the bastards themselves.” He hesitated. “I’ll dig further into the families, but... if they’ve hidden this well, they might not even be tied to the purge anymore.”

  “Which means if one of them survived,” he said carefully, “they wouldn’t show up anywhere we’re currently looking.”

  “Still worth pursuing,” Veska said.

  “I know,” Fenwick replied. “That’s all I have for now.”

  Mirev raised her hand. “Question. Why are we suddenly digging into royal bastards?”

  Veska turned her head toward Kion. Fenwick took the cue and sat.

  Kion stood. The room tilted slightly, nausea curling low and sharp, but he pushed through it.

  He didn’t want to speak.

  Didn’t want to risk what telling them might set in motion.

  But something behind his ribs coiled. He couldn’t tell if it was guilt, or the tether reminding him what secrecy cost the people he cared about.

  “I... followed a shadow,” he said.

  The image rose unbidden.

  Writ lying in her room at the inn after her third report. Still and pale, convinced she was failing. His breath caught.

  He closed his eyes, shook his head, and sank back into his chair. “Sorry. Still dizzy.”

  “That’s alright,” Lurean said gently. “Just sit.”

  He breathed. Once. Twice.

  Then he spoke again, slower this time. Careful.

  He told them what he could. About bloodcraft, about the chase, about the Shadow Accord hiding behind the immaculate face of the Hall of Accordance.

  He offered fragments and partial truths, choosing only what wouldn’t put Writ at risk.

  He didn’t speak of the tether.

  He didn’t speak of Writ herself, of who she was beyond the reports.

  The tether protested anyway, a sharp flare of warning despite having nudged him to talk in the first place.

  Then he spoke of Caedern. The polished voice. The rot beneath it. What he did behind closed doors.

  How the Accord presented the Archjudge as the highest authority, when in truth he answered to another Head who moved unseen.

  Lurean’s eyes widened.

  With every word, memories bled through.

  The interrogation room. Tiran’s office. The long corridor of the Hall. The wall tower. The cold starlight overhead.

  Her room at the inn.

  Just the thought of it made his chest tighten.

  His voice broke.

  Tears took it.

  His vision blurred, spilling before he could stop.

  Fenwick panicked, fumbling for a napkin. Mirev was at his side in an instant, arms around him. Veska rose and came around the table, a steady hand pressed to his back. Even Lurean moved closer.

  The story unraveled.

  Veska called the meeting to a halt, telling him to rest, but didn't push him away just yet.

  Kion sat there, surrounded by people who mattered, who cared, who tried to hold him together, who accepted him.

  And still the tether pulsed, soft and relentless, reminding him of what was missing.

  Of who wasn’t there.

  Of the rejection that lingered longer than anything else.