Kion’s POV

  Tiran’s house, Brandholt City

  The midday bell had rung and long since faded.

  Kion and Jura drifted past a drawer lined with framed photographs before landing lightly atop a tall cabinet, the wood cool beneath their feet.

  From this vantage point, the dining table lay clean and orderly below them, its precise arrangement a quiet contrast to the tension twisting beneath Kion’s ribs.

  Knell had called Writ for lunch a few minutes earlier.

  Now Writ appeared at the bottom of the stairs, walking with the deliberate steadiness of someone trying not to betray the exhaustion pulling at her frame.

  Her steps were controlled. Her face was blank.

  Her body told an entirely different story.

  “I really don’t think this is a good idea, Kion,” Jura murmured beside him, his fourteenth warning by now. “You said you wanted to see her. You have. It’s time to go home.”

  “No. After this.”

  Kion’s gaze never left Writ as she crossed the room. His eyes were still swollen from earlier, vision prickling at the edges.

  He eased down into a sit, wings held low, voice thinned to a thread.

  “You heard Knell. Writ hasn’t eaten in days. I need to know what she does with that.”

  Jura shifted, folding his legs beneath him.

  “And what are you planning to do if it’s not to your liking?” he asked, arching a brow. “Also, proximity is a curse in this setup and you know it. Whatever she feels will hit harder. Faster. Stripped of buffer.”

  Kion didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

  His full attention stayed on Writ as she stopped beside the dining table, pausing at the empty space where a chair should have been.

  She hesitated,subtle, but the tether fed the spike of her confusion directly into him, sharp and quiet like a dropped needle.

  Then she sat beside the empty spot where a chair should be, staring at the table’s edge.

  She nearly reached for her pocket out of reflex.

  Stopped herself mid-motion. Pulled her hand back.

  Kion squeezed his eyes shut against the stab in his ribs, breath snagging.

  Only after he forced air out did he murmur, “I’ll do nothing. And yes. I know this will be hell.”

  Jura’s hand cut through the air in an expressive flick. “Then there is no point in being here. You’ll gag, choke, vomit. Same as yesterday, same as the day before. What if your magic slips during that? We’ll get caught.”

  “Can’t you just... stun my throat?” Kion muttered. “So it won’t happen?”

  “That’s not how it works,” Jura groaned. “I can’t selectively immobilize you unless you’d like to be permanently turned to stone from the neck down.”

  “Please don’t.”

  Jura gave him a look full of weary annoyance.

  Kion huffed, folding his arms. “Then... you’d rather I gag, choke, and vomit on the way back instead?”

  Jura blinked, slow, unimpressed.

  Kion shrugged, pouting without shame.

  A long sigh escaped Jura before he rested his cheek in his fist. “No wonder Seraithe always complained about migraines after your visits.”

  Kion brightened faintly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You would.”

  Before Jura could scold him again, Knell stepped into view.

  She crossed the dining threshold with a measured stride, carrying a glass in one hand and a heavy thermos in the other.

  She set them down with a soft clink, then turned and disappeared into the kitchen again.

  Kion craned forward, wings tightening against his back.

  The tether responded to Writ’s pulse quickening, her unease rolling in waves.

  He inhaled, slow and steady, reminding his body that none of this belonged to him.

  Knell returned with a towel and a basin balanced against her hip. Jura raised both eyebrows in silent approval.

  Kion felt Writ’s confusion flick against him, bright and sharp, and his own brows knit in response.

  Knell circled around the table, footsteps steady, and set the basin at Writ’s right.

  Then she reached for the glass, moved it in front of Writ, and poured a thick pink liquid from the thermos until the glass was nearly full.

  The moment the scent drifted faintly upward, Kion’s stomach lurched.

  Or Writ’s stomach lurched.

  He wasn’t sure which anymore.

  He leaned toward Jura, whispering, “Any idea what that is?”

  “High-calorie drink,” Jura murmured back with a shrug. “Maybe. I’ve asked for the same thing before as payment. Looks right.”

  Kion nodded. Yes, it made sense.

  But the tether didn’t care about logic. It carried only Writ’s dread.

  Knell nudged the glass nearer, then sat at the head of the table beside Writ with a posture too calm to be anything but intentional escalation. Writ went rigid.

  “Drink,” Knell said. “All of it.”

  Kion’s throat constricted as if a hand closed around it.

  He swallowed hard, trying to force the band of pressure down.

  Writ’s breath stuttered. He felt it wash through him. Fast and thin, like breathing through cloth.

  His vision blurred against the wave of panic that wasn’t his.

  Jura tapped his shoulder, same rhythm as before in Writ’s room. A grounding pulse.

  It helped.

  Barely.

  Knell continued, low and unyielding, “It’s alright if you gag. It’s alright if you vomit. But I’ll replace what you lose, and you’ll have to drink it again.”

  Writ lifted her eyes, expression perfectly still, and met Knell’s gaze.

  Kion flinched as his senses got reeled.

  “Breathe,” Jura whispered behind him. “It’s not you.”

  Kion nodded shakily.

  He knew. He always knew.

  But knowing did nothing when he could see her body react and feel it cascade through his own in perfect synchronization.

  Nausea tightened in his throat. Jura shifted closer, still tapping the middle of Kion’s back in a quiet, steady beat.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Writ’s hand moved toward her pocket again, a reflex she had never once managed to erase.

  She caught herself halfway and lowered her hand again.

  The tether coiled violently.

  Kion gritted his teeth at the pain.

  A tremor ran up his spine.

  Writ reached for the glass with both hands. Her fingers curled around it, trembling faintly.

  She lifted it, the weight small but somehow monumental in the moment.

  When the rim neared her mouth, Kion’s tongue recoiled.

  His jaw locked tight, an involuntary refusal that belonged to someone else but controlled him all the same.

  Knell’s attention remained fixed on Writ, but Kion felt its weight like it was turned toward him instead.

  Not unkind. Not impatient.

  Just steady.

  Assessing.

  Waiting.

  He reminded himself that Knell couldn’t see him.

  The invisibility was still intact.

  His heart hammered against his throat, beating too high, too fast, too loud.

  Writ’s dread pooled in him like cold water, rising steadily. Shame curled behind it, sour and thick.

  Jura’s tapping pressed into his back again, a steady lighthouse beat.

  Writ’s fingers shook harder. The glass clinked against her teeth.

  And then—

  She tipped it.

  Kion’s breath stopped.

  He waited for the nausea.

  It arrived instantly.

  His throat spasmed in rejection of a drink he wasn’t swallowing.

  Panic slammed through the tether, ricocheting inside his skull, his chest tightening until he felt hollow.

  It’s her.

  Not me.

  Not me.

  Hold it.

  Hold it—

  Kion pressed both hands hard over his mouth, jaw locked.

  Jura scanned the space around them, searching for a safer perch, his other hand never leaving Kion’s back.

  Writ swallowed.

  Kion’s throat convulsed at the same moment. A sharp gag broke from her.

  Small, choked, and humiliating.

  It stabbed into Kion cleanly, too real to defend against.

  It repeated.

  Again.

  Again.

  Until finally, barely, a first mouthful went down.

  Jura made his decision abruptly. He grabbed Kion and slung him over his shoulder, arms locking him in place, then hauled them down from the cabinet and into the shadowed corner behind a line of picture frames.

  The movement was swift and efficient, meant purely to shield them both.

  Kion didn’t protest. He understood. Even welcomed it.

  If his invisibility flickered now, it could be disastrous.

  He rasped against Jura’s shoulder, lungs reacting to an aftertaste he never tasted.

  Writ closed her eyes.

  Kion did too.

  Another sip.

  Then another.

  And another.

  He knew Knell wouldn’t stop until the glass was empty.

  Writ knew too. She would follow it through. She always did. Knell would refill it if she lost it.

  This was necessity. Kindness wrapped in force.

  So Kion braced himself as she lifted the glass again, jaw shaking, breath thin.

  Not because he had the strength.

  Not because he could handle it.

  But because Knell meant well.

  Because Writ needed this.

  Because someone had to witness her fight.

  Jura kept tapping, grounding him, a quiet metronome in the dark.

  Writ swallowed again.

  And again.

  Each one landing inside him like a crack in glass, hairline fractures spiderwebbing across something already barely holding together.

  “Water?”

  Jura tilted his miniature gourd toward Kion, who was curled on the shelf like a sick stray.

  He’d pulled a forgotten tablecloth from the crevice between furniture and wall and wrapped himself in it, as if that could steady the heaving in his chest.

  They stayed concealed behind the picture frames.Jura’s contingency.

  Necessary, as Kion’s spell slipped again. And again. Too many times.

  Jura had saved them by shifting their position, dragging them down from the cabinet and deeper into cover before Kion could lose his grip entirely.

  Kion lifted a hand over his eyes, muttering, “No. It’ll come out again the moment it reaches my mouth.”

  Jura shrugged in a way that communicated an impressive amount of judgment. “Told you it was a bad idea.”

  “I know.”

  From the kitchen came the clatter of plates. Writ had finished the drink, all of it.

  The basin Knell brought remained empty. Kion didn’t understand how she’d held it together when he couldn’t.

  Near the end, the revulsion had hit so hard that he’d been the one dry heaving, not her.

  He’d expected Knell to release Writ afterward. Let her retreat. Let the nausea punish her in private.

  But Knell didn’t.

  Instead, Knell praised her with a bright, casual "good job" that made Kion’s throat tighten, then immediately sent her toward the stacked dishes in the kitchen.

  Knell herself lounged in the living room now, flipping through a magazine, humming like the sun was shining directly on her mood.

  The window was open. The breeze pushed the curtains in soft sways.

  Writ kept moving.

  The nausea stayed. But so did the drink. Because Writ wasn’t given space to fall.

  So she didn’t.

  She held herself together with the same steady, brittle precision she’d held while drinking.

  “Is it that intense?” Jura asked softly. “What the tether’s sending you? Even with Leta’s spell?”

  “Yeah.” Kion dragged his hand down his face. “It feels like it’s happening to me instead of her. And this is already numbed down. Without Leta, I’d be tearing the whole house apart.”

  Jura’s mouth twisted into an exaggerated grimace. “Urgh. That sucks.”

  “...It’s not supposed to be like that?” Kion asked, dread pooling behind the question.

  “No.” Jura said it too quickly. His brows pulled together. “It should be watered down. Diluted. If your tethered cuts their finger, you’re supposed to feel a... light graze. A suggestion of pain. Not—” He gestured vaguely at Kion. “Whatever this is.”

  A cold knot formed beneath Kion’s ribs. “...You think it’s because I’m doing it solo?”

  “Maybe.” Jura looked unsettled now, wings shifting. “I’ve never met a solo caster. Only heard whispers. Rumors. Most fairfolk avoid the taboo, you know. Unlike a certain someone.” He glanced at Kion.

  “So...yeah. I don’t even know what it’s supposed to look like.”

  Kion let out a thin, guilty breath. “Glad to be your first?”

  Jura snorted weakly. “Heh.”

  Kion stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, his throat tight around something that wasn’t quite nausea anymore.

  The more he thought about how reflexively he’d tethered Writ, how little he’d considered the mechanics or consequences, the more that cold knot crawled upward.

  Jura eventually asked, “You think you’re strong enough to fly home now?”

  “Five minutes,” Kion said. “Still fighting nausea.”

  “Sure. And I’m not accepting a single second more.” Jura’s tone sharpened with a rare sternness. “We stay longer, you’ll insist on staying all day. I know how you get.”

  Kion didn’t argue. Mostly because Jura was right.

  After a breath, Kion sat up and pushed to his feet.

  He could fly. He had been able to for a while. The nausea had thinned into something manageable, he just hadn’t mentioned that.

  Stalling meant more time. Stalling meant staying.

  He flew anyway, wings flicking out.

  Jura clicked his tongue and followed. “You just told me you’re nauseous.”

  “I need to see her one last time,” Kion said quietly, “before you drag me away in less than five minutes.”

  Jura didn’t answer.

  Kion glided across the dining room and into the kitchen, landing lightly on the top of a cupboard crowded with fancy cutlery he doubted Knell actually used.

  He perched on the edge, leaning forward, soaking in every line of Writ’s silhouette.

  She moved in a rhythm too neat, too consistent. Scrub, rinse, next. As if her body knew the sequence better than she knew her own breathing.

  Her expression was blank, her posture efficient, almost mechanical. The nausea pulsed through the tether in steady waves, but her hands never faltered.

  There were too many dishes. More than three people could justify.

  Some plates still carried residue too elaborate for a simple lunch.

  Too many cups. Too many utensils.

  Knell’s feeding other people.

  Hidden somewhere in the house.

  Or drifting in and out when Writ wasn’t looking.

  He filed it away, not important now.

  What mattered was the contrast. Writ’s calm exterior versus the chaos funneling into him.

  She held, so he had to as well. Even if holding meant gripping the cupboard edge until his claws clicked.

  He thought about the broth and the bread.

  How those had once been safe.

  How they weren’t anymore.

  He thought about asking Seraithe, about doing something to help, about revealing himself.

  And immediately discarded it.

  Revealing himself would make things worse. Make her angrier. Hurt her.

  He’d already crossed every line she gave him just by being here.

  So he only watched.

  Watched and ached.

  Jura, meanwhile, flew lazy circles around the kitchen, emitting little hums of approval every time he noticed Knell’s cleaning supplies arranged just so, or the precise order of spices on the counter.

  Kion ignored him.

  Time slipped past faster than he liked. Too fast.

  “Time’s up.” Jura landed behind him, tapping his shoulder with finality. “Your tethered is in good hands. You can stop clinging to the ceiling.”

  “Fine...” Kion pushed himself upright, though his eyes stayed locked on Writ for several more heartbeats.

  He inhaled slowly. Let it out slower.

  “Let’s go,” Jura said, already waiting at the kitchen arch, wings impatient.

  Kion sighed. “Yeah, yeah.” He dropped down from the cupboard and shot toward the open window in the living room.

  He didn’t see the way Writ paused mid-motion.

  Didn’t see her shoulders stiffen.

  Didn’t see her eyes snap toward the threshold, catching something subtle. A shift in the air. The faintest displacement.

  By the time she turned fully, the arch was empty. And the only sound left was running water and the hum of Knell’s cheerful tune.