The nausea came as expected. Gagging, involuntary tears burning at the corners of her eyes, her throat locking around each swallow. She kept them down by habit now, by force, drawing the reactions back before they could spill into anything visible.
The meals stayed down. All of them. It still felt like a feat, even if she knew it wasn’t something worth celebrating.
After that, Knell had her wash the dishes again, far more than dinner could have produced. The extras appeared later, once the tap was already running and Writ’s hands were full of bubbles.
That had been happening long before she left the house the first time. The anomaly had settled into expectation. She didn’t ask. Never did. Her task was only to get them clean.
When those were finished, there was dusting. Ornaments, lamps, frames, everything within reach. There was barely any dust, just the faintest suggestion of it, but Writ did it anyway.
Tiran only returned after she’d finished half the room. They exchanged nods, nothing more. Then he went upstairs at once. Knell followed him, pausing only long enough to tell Writ that the sleep aid was ready and waiting on the dining table. Neither of them returned.
Writ was left alone with the remaining dust and a single instruction: she could return to her room after the entire first floor was finished.
It felt like a cool breeze after standing too long under a scorching sun.
She had survived another day. She hadn’t triggered Knell in any way she could see.
She finished the room and swallowed the pills. Then she went back to her room, turned the blanket on the bed twice, and curled on the floor with her back pressed to the bedframe.
She had used the bed. That should count.
Lying there, she wondered quietly, carefully, when would Tiran ask what was due. The questions he’d claimed as payment for refusing escalation. He hadn’t mentioned them since she relocated. Knell hadn’t either.
The thought lingered, unfinished, until the sleep aid dragged her under.
Another day passed. Nothing changed.
Today was Saturday.
Tiran usually stayed home on weekends. The Hall didn’t require him to maintain the facade then. But for some reason, he left early. Slipping out just before Writ came downstairs for breakfast.
The absence loosened something tight behind her ribs. She didn’t know whether she could eat or drink anything if he was seated at the table. She didn’t know if she’d survive that pressure. So she accepted the relief without questioning it, quietly grateful.
The day unfolded the same way as the last. An excruciating attempt at eggs and bread. Chores. Another drink, this time with an added half portion. More chores. Dinner brought two full glasses.
Her stomach felt bloated. Too full. The nausea struck harder, heavier.
But Knell didn’t allow much rest.
And Writ didn’t vomit.
Knell’s plan worked. Again. Somehow.
It wasn’t new. Knell had done the same during her last stay. Meals followed by movement, chores layered one over another. No wonder she repeated it now.
By evening, Writ found herself folding clean clothes in the living room. Too many clothes, just like the dishes.
Knell was in the kitchen, preparing something to make breakfast easier in the morning. Tiran still hadn’t returned.
Writ’s hands moved on their own. Take one, align it, fold. Again and again, until the pile on the sofa shrank from a small mountain to a manageable mound.
Knell emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron before removing it and hanging it by the dining area. She approached without hurry.
Her voice was calm, almost casual. “Where did you put your daily log? I can forward it to Tiran if you haven’t.”
Writ’s hands hovered over the shirt she was folding. Then froze. Her spine stiffened, a quiet lock snapping into place through every muscle.
The words echoed, neither question nor demand, yet heavier than any order she’d received in days.
Her mind scrambled.
She hadn’t done that. Not once. Not in… a month? More?
Her gaze dropped to the floor, tracing the thin line where tiles met, as if the seam might offer an answer. Turning toward Knell felt impossible, like acknowledging the failure would physically unbalance her.
Time stretched. The hum of the house pressed in. Her breath caught between panic and disbelief.
Knell waited, patient and silent. She didn’t step closer or repeat herself. She simply stood there, steady as the low table in front of Writ.
A shiver ran through Writ’s limbs. Her chest tightened. Her fingers curled into small fists, trembling.
Tiran hadn’t asked anymore. Not since she arrived in Brandholt. She hadn’t known she was still expected to—
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The thought fractured before it could finish.
She wasn’t frozen from fear of punishment. She was simply caught inside the sudden weight of expectation, dropped back into place without warning.
She felt Knell’s gaze remain on her. Watching, assessing, noticing. The discomfort sharpened.
Then Knell spoke again, quietly. “Alright. We’ll sort it later.”
The words were soft, almost invisible, but they struck Writ like a hand finally letting go.
Knell didn’t press.
A small, unsteady exhale slipped free. Her shoulders loosened a fraction. Just enough to confirm she was still standing.
She nodded once, enough to show that she was listening.
The creak of the gate sounded soon after, followed by the crunch of gravel drawing closer. Knell walked past her, almost hurriedly, and disappeared through the front door. Only then did Writ realize she was breathing again.
Daily log. She made a mental note to rush it tonight, after Knell dismissed her from chores. There were papers and pens in her room. That was manageable. That was something she could still do.
For now, she kept folding. One shirt after another. Later, she nodded to Tiran as he passed, Knell following him upstairs, repeating the familiar mantra. Dismissal after chores, sleep aid on the table.
She was quietly grateful Knell had mentioned it first. It would have undone her completely if she’d only realized when Tiran asked.
Tonight, at least, someone had reminded her.
The relief came before she could stop it. Before another thought surfaced, uninvited. About someone else who had let her sink without warning.
She took the saucer with the pills only after the last shirt was folded and stacked, carrying it upstairs with the same care she’d given the laundry.
The porcelain made no sound as she set it down beside the pitcher of water on her desk, aligning it so the rim didn’t overhang the wood. A small order. Something finished, before something else began.
She lifted her hand and pushed mana into the lamp.
The light bloomed. Soft at first, then steady, casting familiar shadows along the walls of her room. It was the first time she’d fed the lamp since stepping back into this house. Until now, she’d let the evenings dim naturally, let stillness take over when the day ran out of reasons to move.
Tonight, she couldn’t afford that. Tonight, she couldn’t let herself slip back into stillness. Tonight, she had to finish the daily logs. All thirty-one days of them.
The thought sat heavy in her chest. Thirty-one days was a long stretch to reconstruct, especially with the doubt still gnawing at the edges of her memory.
Some parts felt intact, precise as ever. Others were blurred, softened in ways that made her distrust them. But accuracy, she reminded herself, had never truly been the point. Tiran never checked whether her logs were truthful. Only that they existed. Only that she complied. That would have to be enough.
She sat at the desk, back straight, posture rigid as if bracing against something unseen. The nausea lingered, dull and insistent, but she ignored it. Letting it slow her down wasn’t an option tonight. She could endure discomfort. She always had.
Paper lay neatly arranged in front of her. She picked up the pen. Her fingers trembled faintly as they closed around it. The grip felt wrong, too tight, though she knew it was the same grip she’d always used. She adjusted, then forced her hand to steady through sheer will.
She began with the summons. Those dates mattered. Those had to be right.
She wrote chronologically, one entry at a time, starting from the oldest.
Arrival in Brandholt. Extended wait in Tiran’s reception room. Instruction to sense Tenzurah notebook. Dismissal without further explanation.
She recorded it cleanly, efficiently.
The page turned.
Directive to trace a single notebook page. Ingestion of substance presented as Blissbane cure, accompanied by stated possibility of mental interference. No observable alteration in cognition following ingestion.
She didn’t write what the cure had cost her that night. She didn’t write about the fairy. Its presence, the weight it left behind in her memory. Some things were better left unacknowledged. Moreover, when it's on paper.
She kept going.
Tracing of all notebook pages. Introduction by Caedern. Measured tone. Offer of a single question. Casual reference to Caustic by name.
That day, she wrote in detail. There had been nothing to hide then. Nothing she needed to protect.
Grade-four summon issued. Magic scan conducted. Residual magic detected on notebook. Subsequent waiting period. Assignment brief delivered: preparation for first interrogation.
She rolled her shoulder and flexed her wrist. She acknowledged the mark still clinging there only briefly. No more. Then she wrote again.
Interrogation of Rowan. Extended research in the Kesherra library. Report filed the following day. Immediate preparation initiated for second interrogation.
For a moment, the last image of Rowan’s face flickered in her mind. She pushed it aside and kept writing.
Second interrogation conducted. Report submitted. No preparatory instruction issued for a third.
She omitted how deeply that absence had unsettled her. Omitted the way uncertainty had gnawed at her composure. Weakness had no place in these pages. Especially not weakness the Accord could read.
The lamp dimmed slightly.
She noticed at once and fed it more mana, restoring the brightness. She needed the light to hold. She needed it steady.
Third interrogation conducted. Final report submitted. Dismissal and instruction to await further orders. Escort by Caustic to the inn. Destruction of interrogation-related documents. Return to the Hall to submit one overlooked record. Prolonged sitting on the field outside Brandholt’s gate. Visit from Knell.
She didn’t let the writing show that she cared. Didn’t record the hours spent rehearsing her report, refining it again and again until dawn threatened the window. Didn’t record what happened after she returned from the Hall, before she passed the gate.
Room inspection initiated. Conduct by Caedern recorded in indistinct terms.
She rendered it as something half-remembered, maintaining the claim that she recalled little of that night.
She paused there, pen hovering, weighing whether to note the division switch. The hesitation stretched. One minute, then another. In the end, she left it out. That was something to be addressed only if Tiran asked.
If he ever truly asked.
Her hand stilled.
She didn’t record the wounds being false. Didn’t record who had planted them. He was erased from the log entirely. Never named, never implied.
As he should be.
She turned the page and continued.
Physical examination. Questioning. Offer of escalation. Temporary recess advised prior to continuation. Mission brief assigned. Execution completed. Clean-up performed. Packing. Relocation.
She omitted Caustic bringing her to the Black Quill office. Too dangerous. Too many questions would follow if that link existed on paper at all.
By the time she finished documenting the days of summons, the muted chime of the eleventh bell echoed faintly through the house.
She set the pen down and cracked her knuckles, easing the ache in her hands. The relief was minimal. Enough.
She scanned the pages. The handwriting wasn’t as neat as she preferred. Lines slightly uneven, letters tighter than usual. But it would do. It had to. There was no time to rewrite it properly.
She picked the pen up again.
Now came the harder part.
She began filling in the days between, working backward from recent to older, padding the gaps with careful half-lies.
Breakfast downstairs. The drink. The chores that followed. Long stretches in her room. Sleeping. Meditating. Things she hadn’t actually done.
The empty day between the third report and the room inspection became a fabricated walk through town. Harmless errands. Passing observations. Nothing that invited scrutiny.
Truth bled into lies until the line between them thinned, then vanished, even for her.
She kept writing. One day at a time. Line after line.
Because she couldn’t afford not to.