Glitterstorm’s POV

  Dining Room, Lurean’s House, Brandholt City

  Lurean guided Kion down the hallway toward the guest room, one hand hovering close without quite touching him.

  When he crossed the threshold, his human form dissolved. Not with the usual soft flare of light or the subtle shimmer that accompanied his return to the form he preferred, but quietly. Muted. As if the magic itself had chosen not to draw attention.

  It was less a transformation than a disappearance.

  The door closed behind them.

  The rest of them remained in the dining room, their eyes drawn, whether consciously or not, to the empty space where Kion had been sitting. The chair stood slightly askew, still angled toward the table. A forgotten glass waited near his place.

  The quiet that followed was heavy. Not awkward silence, not quite, but something denser. The echo of Kion’s unraveling lingered in the room like a held breath no one was ready to release.

  Veska broke it first, though not with words. Her pen moved steadily across the paper she’d brought for the meeting, precise strokes, as if the act of writing itself could restore order.

  Mirev’s gaze bounced from Veska to Fenwick, then to the doorway, then back to the table. Unable to sit with the stillness, she reached for another glass of water, lifting it just to have something to do with her hands.

  Fenwick lasted longer than expected. Then he exhaled sharply and leaned forward.

  “Guys,” he said, voice pitched low but unable to hide his disbelief, “Kion is actually ill. That’s... hard to believe.”

  Mirev’s expression brightened, relief written plainly across her face at the permission to puncture the pressure.

  “He is,” she said quickly. “Didn’t you notice? His human glamour flickered way too many times.”

  Fenwick hunched, planting both elbows on the table and resting his chin in his hands. “It did? Didn’t look any different to me.”

  “Well, first of all,” Mirev waved a hand vaguely, “he’s using his actual appearance instead of the official one. Like... big fairy Kion, but no wings.” She frowned, thinking. “I didn’t even know he could do that. I thought the usual face was the only human form he could take.”

  “Oh?” Fenwick blinked. “I saw that once, days ago. Thought it was normal in front of you lot and I just hadn’t noticed before.”

  “Same here,” Veska added without lifting her head, pen still moving. “That was the first time I saw it too.”

  Fenwick tilted his head, shifting to lean on one hand now. “So he could... what. Shapeshift?”

  “Well, illusion is his forte,” Mirev said, poking Fenwick with her elbow and pointing at the sugar-dusted cookie jar. “Maybe it’s just another trick. And this version costs less mana upkeep. Or less focus.”

  She shrugged, then added, more thoughtfully, “Just my guess, though. I don’t do illusion magic. And fairy magic’s inherently different from ours.”

  Fenwick passed her the jar. She took it and opened it, only for Fenwick to snatch it away before she could grab a cookie. She hissed and lunged, reclaiming it with a scowl. Fenwick grinned unabashedly and reached instead for the honey-almond biscuit jar.

  “And it’s also shocking,” he said around a mouthful, “that his Silent Writ project actually bore fruit. Makes you wonder what his girlfriend would think. Seraithe seems like the jealous type.”

  Veska finally looked up. Surprise flickered across her face. Mirev blinked once, then very deliberately focused on her cookie.

  “What?” Fenwick asked, meeting Veska’s gaze. “Am I mistaken?”

  “I’m not answering that,” Veska replied, already looking back down at her notes.

  Fenwick turned to Mirev. “What am I missing? Do you know something?”

  Mirev stuffed her cheek full of cookie, pointed at it as if to say occupied, chewed slowly, and shrugged.

  Fenwick’s fingers tapped against his chin as his mind worked. Calculations ticked behind his eyes.

  Then something clicked.

  “Wait. Don’t tell me.” Fenwick slapped the table softly. “His girlfriend is Silent Writ. Not Seraithe.”

  Mirev’s cheek still hadn’t flattened. She barely finished chewing before shoving another cookie into her mouth.

  “Veska. Mirev,” Fenwick said, looking between them. “Do I get it right?”

  Veska glanced at Mirev, then chuckled quietly. “Maybe you should ask Kion himself.”

  “In this situation?” Fenwick scowled. “I mean... his story was straightforward, factual even. He walked us through everything clearly, piece by piece. And then suddenly, he just... fell apart.”

  He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “It’s Kion we’re talking about. That Kion. He could stand being hit by both Mirev’s and Lurean’s magic at the same time. He spoke before nobles as if he were their equal. Handled Euri’s impossible deadlines like swatting mosquitos. He shouldn’t be shaken by being chased by unknown magic or discovering the rot within the Accord.”

  Veska didn’t flinch. “He cried a lot watching sad theaters, though.”

  “Well, yes,” Fenwick said, exhaling, “but still... I’d rather not push him any further. We need him. This last week was already hell without him.”

  “Then hold back a bit,” Veska said, rising from her seat. “It’s his private life. You wouldn’t want people constantly asking if you’re serious with that External Council woman, would you?”

  Her smile was polite. Controlled. It sent a chill straight down Fenwick’s spine.

  Mirev finally washed down the cookies with a gulp of water and grinned. “She’s Othvarn’s people,” she added lightly. “You’d better not play around.”

  “Excuse me,” Fenwick protested. “My feelings toward her are pure.”

  Veska adjusted her purse strap. “Then what about the Dominion Council’s one? Or Commerce?”

  “How do you even know that?” Fenwick gasped.

  Mirev laughed, unrestrained now, the sound filling the room at last.

  “I’ll stop by Fairy Dust,” Veska said, already turning toward the door. She tapped the papers once, precise. “Read it when you’ve caught your breath. Burn it afterward.”

  She paused just long enough to glance back.

  “Give Kion and grandma my best.”

  “Don’t you dare tell them about each other,” Fenwick said, already following her. “I’ll walk you to the gate.”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Mirev waved from her chair. “Safe trip.”

  The entrance door closed behind them, the click echoing softly through the house.

  Left alone, Mirev drifted toward the sofa and collapsed onto it, staring up at the ceiling. She drew in a long breath and let it out slowly, hands folding over her stomach.

  Under her breath, barely louder than a thought, she murmured a prayer to the Roots. That this fragile, cheerful calm would hold.

  That it wouldn’t shatter.

  Kion’s POV

  Guest Room, Lurean’s House, Brandholt City

  Kion flew in crooked loops until gravity, or his own exhaustion, finally won out.

  He dropped onto the bed and went face down at once, pressing himself into the coverlet as if the fabric could swallow the sound of him breaking.

  His wings fluttered once, uselessly, then went still. He let the tears come where no one could see them.

  The door closed behind him with deliberate care.

  Lurean crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. Two fingers found the top of his head, gentle as if he were something fragile set on a shelf rather than a grown fairfolk curled in on himself.

  Her touch was careful, practiced. She smiled sadly, and the room seemed to soften around it, so soft it hurt.

  “I’m... sorry,” Kion said into the fabric, his voice thick. “I ruined the meeting.”

  “You didn’t,” Lurean said, quietly certain. “No one would think of it that way. We’re worried, that’s all.”

  He turned his head just enough to peek out from the sheet. His eyes burned. “But I messed it up. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the only update Veska needed to tell us. Her list never ends that short.”

  “Hush, Kion dear.” Her fingers ruffled his hair. “She’ll have it all written down by now. You’ve done the same before, stopping meetings when something urgent took priority and making sure the rest was covered later.”

  “But I—”

  “No ‘but.’” Her voice sharpened just enough to cut through him. “Breathe with me.”

  She drew in an exaggerated breath.

  Kion flipped onto his back and followed her rhythm, one hand settling on his stomach to feel the rise and fall. For a moment, it worked.

  Then Writ’s nausea crawled through the tether and coiled in his gut, sharp and sudden. He swallowed it down, refused to acknowledge it, refused to let it derail him again.

  He closed his eyes.

  The seconds stretched thin.

  When he opened them again, he let out a long, shuddering sigh and pressed the heels of his hands to his face.

  “This is about her, isn’t it?” Lurean asked, her voice low.

  It took him a moment to answer. “Yeah.”

  “I thought so.” She folded her hands in her lap. “You know I’m here if you need an ear.”

  He glanced at her through his fingers. “I know. Thanks.” Then he covered his face again, retreating.

  Silence settled. Lurean stood and moved to the one-seater sofa beside the bed, easing herself down and leaning back as if to give him space without leaving.

  “How do you do it?” Kion asked after a while. He lowered his hands and stared up at the ceiling. “How do you manage relying on pain meds every day? Human-made ones, even. They’re less effective than our spells.”

  She huffed softly. “For starters, I’d rather rely on what I can make myself.” One brow lifted. “It’s not like I can put one of your fairy friends in my pocket and carry them everywhere.”

  Then her tone shifted, quieter. “And you stop asking whether it’s hard. You ask whether it’s necessary. You build your days around it, not your pride.”

  “I hate it,” Kion muttered.

  “Of course you do.” Her eyes softened. “I hated it too. But you’re meant to make peace with it, not love it.”

  He groaned. She chuckled.

  “Did she hit you hard enough to break your barrier?” Lurean asked.

  “No.” He grimaced. “It’d be easier if that were the case.”

  “Hm.” Amusement flickered briefly in her eyes. “Curiosity will be the death of me.”

  She didn’t push. He laughed, awkward and grateful all at once.

  “Anyway,” she said, rummaging in the pocket of her cardigan. A garment she never seemed to part with, even indoors. “Your request is done.”

  She drew out a small drawstring pouch and opened it. Inside lay two pearls: one full-sized, the other half as large. She held one in each hand.

  “Push mana into one,” she explained, “and the other will glow and pulse.”

  Kion’s gaze darted between them as she demonstrated, the soft light blooming first in the larger pearl, then the smaller as she reversed the flow.

  “I figured she wouldn’t want anything flashy,” Lurean added with a smile. “So I kept it simple. What do you think?”

  His vision blurred. “Stars, it’s perfect,” he whispered.

  He tried to blink the tears away.

  When that failed, he wiped them on the sheet. “Is that why you came looking for me at the office days ago?”

  “Yes. It was already finished by then. Pity you weren’t there, I wanted to brag sooner.” She set the pearls and the pouch on the nightstand. “Don’t worry about it. I had a reunion with the girls. We had fun talking about dust. The trip wasn’t wasted.”

  Kion pushed himself upright and crossed his legs. With careful magic, he levitated the pearls onto the bed and tested them himself, watching one glow as he nudged the other.

  Fine carvings traced their surfaces, so delicate they only caught the light when the pearls pulsed.

  It was exactly what he’d wanted. Exactly what he’d hoped to give Writ.

  That knowledge hurt more than he’d expected.

  “But, Lurean…” Tears slid down his cheeks again. “I can’t give it to her anymore.”

  She tilted her head. “Why not?”

  He set the pearls down and rolled the larger one beneath his palm. “Because…” His throat hitched. “She doesn’t want me around anymore.”

  Saying it aloud felt wrong. The tether tightened in response, stealing his breath.

  There was pressure behind his ribs. An urge to speak and to stay silent all at once, to share the weight and to fear what sharing might break.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Lurean said gently.

  He wiped his tears on his shoulder and moved to sit on the nightstand beside her instead. The pearls floated after him.

  He held the larger one with both hands, setting the smaller close. It pulsed once as mana bled into it without his meaning to.

  “I... decided for her,” he said at last. “I put an illusion on her, before she had a chance to choose.”

  The bigger pearl rested on his lap as he worked to steady his breathing. “I told myself it was necessary. I told myself it would help.”

  He lowered his head. “It didn’t.”

  “She asked me about it,” he went on, stroking the pearl absently. “I couldn’t lie.”

  His hand stilled. “She’s been relocated. And she told me not to follow.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  “So that’s what made you sick,” Lurean said finally, confusion creasing her brow. “Enough to need a numbing spell. Are fairfolk more... prone to heartbreak, or...?”

  Kion didn’t answer right away. He pressed his palms harder against the pearl before forcing himself to ease the pressure. The tether drew in around him, close and watchful, a wordless warning pressing at his ribs.

  “There’s another reason,” Kion said, averting his gaze. “One I can’t share.”

  “And that’s why you were so insistent on following her?”

  “...Yes.”

  “I see.” She let the matter rest.

  Lurean studied him a while longer before speaking.

  Then she sighed. “Intent doesn’t erase impact, Kion.”

  “I know,” he said. “But only when it’s too late.”

  “You crossed a boundary.” She fell quiet, then nodded once. “You know that now.”

  “Yes.” His voice wavered. “I shouldn’t have planted that magic. Shouldn’t have made a plan without asking. Shouldn’t have followed her at all.”

  “I knew better.”

  His grip tightened around the pearl. “This is just the consequence. I deserve it.”

  Lurean didn’t argue. She reached out and smoothed his hair. “What you’re feeling isn’t punishment. It’s the weight of knowing you can’t undo it.”

  “What should I do now?” he asked.

  She considered him for a long moment. “You stop deciding for her.”

  Her thumb brushed through his hair. “And you decide whether you can live with that.”

  “Respect the distance she set,” she added. “Don’t act. Not unless she asks. Not unless she chooses.”

  He nodded, pulling the pearl to his chest as if it might steady him. Its surface was warm now, faintly responsive to his pulse.

  He curled around it, wings twitching once before settling, breath hitching as the ache finally caught up to him.

  He didn’t try to push the feeling away. Didn’t reach for illusion or control.

  He just held on, and let it hurt.

  “We can’t walk it for you,” Lurean said softly. “But you don’t have to disappear to walk it alone.”

  “Whatever you decide,” she went on, “this place doesn’t close behind you.”

  Kion sniffed, a small sob breaking free.

  He looked up at her. “I love you, Grandma Lurean.”

  “I love you too, little one.” She smiled. “Now rest. Or talk. Or whatever makes it lighter. Do you want to be alone, or shall I stay?”

  “Please stay,” he said. “My mind’s too loud when I’m alone.”

  “I will,” she said. “Always.”

  He leaned back against the nightstand, still holding the larger pearl above his chest. The smaller one rolled toward away; he caught it with a flicker of magic.

  They talked then. About Mirev’s preparations, the Blissbane flower, Scatter Light returning to oversee it, Lurean’s reunion in Kesherra.

  Anything to pull his thoughts away from Writ.

  Quietly, he was grateful for the safety net woven around him.

  Glitterstorm, Seraithe. Communities that refused to let him sink alone.

  It was nothing like years ago, when he’d been forced to stand by himself or be lost, marked for banishment and avoided by all.

  Warmth filled him despite the tether’s protest.

  He stroked it, wishing Writ luck, trusting that she too had people who would hold her up even when she misunderstood their care.

  He apologized in the privacy of his thoughts and promised to keep his word this time.

  The tether tightened, not in agreement, but in watchful silence. Still, his decision held.

  His heart protested, joined by the ache behind his ribs, sharp and deep despite the painkiller.

  He would not seek her out. Not until she called him first.

  Even if it cut deeper to do so.

  Because that was what all she had asked of him.