Journal 19 - Day 15 in Beaumont

**Psychic Paper**
"I believe the strife I am receiving inside of the new group I am with is going to be hard to salvage. -K"
 
(Written in the Queen's French)**Written while between timelines. A lesson in being tied to Time and Patience.**
Lost in time. Lost to speech and response. I watch you all, this horror devolve before my eyes while you ask where I have gone, when I'll answer, why I have no opinion... why I am not helping. All because of these words, "What am I even doing here?".
 
I am caught within the glass of time — a lesson of stillness gifted, or rather inflicted, by Blink. Every breath I try to take shatters against the pane that holds me. I see everything. I can do nothing. Below, the world unfolds as if to test my restraint. The BRN move like snakes dressed in uniforms — traitors pretending to be shepherds. Their corruption seeps through every well-polished lie, every convenient half-truth they feed to my companions. They’ve turned deception into doctrine, and the loyal swallow it whole. How do you not listen or see?
 
Jaxion… gods preserve him. His conviction blinds him so completely that he cannot see the rot blooming beneath his own banner. He clings to that oath like a drowning man to driftwood, unaware the current carries him toward the abyss. His faith in the BRN is not noble — it is fear. Fear of seeing that his father’s legacy was built on sand. Fear of facing a truth that would break him. Fear that his life was given purpose by a corrupt faction. I can imagine that being a hard medicine to swallow.
 
I watch as he convinces Gidget, Echo, and Silas that the path ahead is safe. That the BRN will protect them. That loyalty will save them.
It won’t.
Xhoya knows it. She trembles with that rare kind of clarity born from desperation. Her voice cracks as she pleads, begs, screams for reason, but they do not listen. They think her panic irrational, her magic unstable — yet she is the only one seeing the storm for what it is. Lux stands by her side. Two sparks against a flood. I am so sorry girls I wasn't there to fan those flames. I am so proud of you both.
 
Then the Cindercleft lurches. I feel its metal bones groan through the timestream as Xhoya locks them out — a child defying gods and fools alike. It’s the only choice she has left. Watching her steer away from slaughter while they brand her reckless is agony. I want to reach through this glass, to seize the wheel, to scream sense into them — but Blink’s lesson holds me still.
 
And then, betrayal. Not from enemy hands — from our own.
Jaxion storms the cockpit, fury burning where reason should live. Xhoya’s cries twist into sparks as her magic lashes out — a desperate plea turned to lightning. It strikes him, hard and fast, his life seized a bit with him I think. Before he grabs her again and forces her down, guarding her like a prisoner instead of a friend. I feel it tear through me — the sound of trust breaking, the sight of fate given family turning against itself. For false hopes of a gone life.
 
Yet even that pain pales beside what follows.
Gidget — clever, ambitious Gidget — wraps her choices in the silk of “protection.” She claims to act for our safety, yet every word drips with self-interest disguised as duty. Duty to Jaxion? Why? She pines after him and I see her clutching to his side. I trusted her to be steady when others wavered, but now I see the fault line was there all along. She stands beside Jaxion, not out of faith, but because it benefits her narrative of control. Her loyalty bends with convenience.
 
And Echo… Silas… their siding with him is a wound I did not expect.
Echo, whose mechanical heart I believed could still hear truth when others faltered. Silas, whose keen mind should have smelled deceit in the air. Instead, both stand silent, complicit. My disappointment is immeasurable. There was no logic in this forced re-routing. Only appeasement. Peacemaking and hard decisions don't always listen to the loudest voice.
 
They told me to be the wallpaper for my own safety — to stand back, unseen, unheard — while they march straight into the arms of those who hunt me. The irony tastes of ash. To be deemed too precious to risk, yet not worth believing when I warn them of the blade poised above us. When others warn of the same prophecy.
 
The checkpoint arrives. A graveyard masquerading as a base. Soldiers lined in neat, horrifying rows. Execution shots. Cold precision. Their loyalty rewarded with death. A silent message from the Deremitru: Your service is complete.
 
Even now, Jaxion cannot see it. He blames Xhoya. He blames everyone but the BRN. His faith remains unshaken, his eyes still closed. My hands tremble as I write this. Not from fear — from fury. From heartbreak. From the knowledge that, had I been there, maybe, just maybe none of this would have unfolded so disgracefully. And what did we find out? What did you learn? That you have armor again and that the people who we are dealing with have already taken the safety net of your life. No one's fault but the cracks in your walls of government and a crazed people with to much power in their hands.
 
This is my lesson, Blink. You wanted me to see what happens when I withhold my hand — when I believe wisdom alone can guard them. You wanted me to watch the cost of their faith in mortals, and mine in patience. I see it now. I see what my absence allows.
 
When I return to the current, judgment will follow. Not vengeance — reckoning. They will know how close they came to ruin. They will understand the weight of trust betrayed and warnings ignored. I will not shout. I will not curse.
I will remind them who I am.
 
Let this entry stand as record:
The BRN are compromised. The Deremitru are pruning their pawns. The innocent bleed beneath banners they trusted. And those I call my own have forgotten how to see.
 
That will change.
 
— Kiíellièn