I must not tell lies.

Over and over. Line after line. The words burn themselves into the parchment, and Y/n can feel the back of her hand tingling with each pass.

The pink of her office feels like a threat. All those frilly doilies and decorative plates with mewing kittens. Y/n's hand aches. Her wrist is cramping. The words keep appearing on the back of her hand in red, angry welts, fading almost as fast as they form, but not fast enough.

Outside the window, the sun is starting to set. Orange light slants through the glass. Somewhere in the castle, Mattheo is probably losing his goddamn mind.

The quill scratches on.