The Hall of Nine Lamps was already practicing its manners when we arrived: chandeliers breathing like patient constellations, a polished floor of pale marble that wanted to be a staff more than a surface, and balconies of glass tuned to catch compliments without turning them into echoes. Musicians in bell-bronze filigree warmed a string-peal in fifths that sounded like doors politely opening.
Between two cedar screens, our mother waited with the court dresser, a small army of pins, and the expression queens wear when memory taps their shoulder.
"Eirion," she said softly, holding up a gown of leaf-white glass-silk, the kind the court had put me in when I was simply beautiful and not yet named. "For old time's sake?"
The room held its breath; mine wanted to leave. Aurelia's rim found the inch at my back.
I set house between memory and me.
Two hair Sunlines circled the dressing dais; I breathed a mild Peal under the cedar, keyed to Ceremonial Candor. "Speak truly; ask before assuming; no loud Novas where pins are near skin."
"I am a man," I said—gentle, true. "He/him."
Her Majesty's eyes warmed and then shuttered for the room. "And I have learned to ask," she answered, setting the gown aside without bruising it. "What would you wear to teach a hall how to see you?"
The dresser—blushing with relief at not being in the lesson—produced an alternative: a long Cantor's coat in night-ivory with bellglass pleats that moved like water, split to the thigh for steps, with a high collar that knew when not to frame a throat. Lysithea's scabbard seated into a hidden seam; a narrow sash carried a stitched clause in leaf-gold.
"Cantor's Vestment—Names & Steps," the dresser said, hands steadying. "Coat, not dress. It reads you."
I ran two fingers along the sash and wrote the law into the hem.
New Technique (Built): Hem Clause — Counter-Signature + Annotation (silk) + Bond Mirror (glass) sewn into formalwear.
Effect: attire mirrors the wearer's declared name and pronouns; first misaddress in line-of-sight converts to correct address (Courtesy Declension); indecent gazes incur Shame (light).
Her Majesty adjusted the collar with a mother's illegal tenderness, smuggling two lemon–thyme pastilles into my palm as if the cedar screens were spies. "You look like you," she said. Aurelia's strap got one invisible tug tighter—an old rite before we share a room with knives disguised as compliments.
┌──────────── PRE-BALL STATUS ───────────┐
│ Eirion — HP: 13,180 / 13,180 MP: 20 / 21,100 │
│ Aegis Hymn: 19% Oathbond: Linked (94%) │
│ Buffs: Court Key, Quiet Law, Hem Clause │
│ Gear: Lysithea — Bride's Oath (Legendary); Cantor's Vestment │
│ Aurelia — HP: 12,460 / 12,460 │
│ Constraints: Indoors → edge-casts only; route via bronze/glass/water │
└───────────────────────────────────────────────┘
The Floor as Staff
We stepped into the hall and made the floor readable. Two fine Sunlines traced a broad oval—lanes for waltz and words—and I bridged them with Suture Bridges where dancers would forget to breathe. Then I tapped the rail and the chandelier stems with Peal routed through bronze, not air.
"Step Sentence."
New Technique (Built): Step Sentence — Concord Peal (bronze) + Noon Handshake + Wayleave keyed to floor; paces the waltz to a shared clause (Ask; don't assume; listen on the two); converts shoves to hesitations, and panic to pace. Oathbond +5% while within the sentence.
The orchestra heard the law and smiled into it. People glided like commas instead of exclamation points. Compliments found the right shape on their first try and felt clever for it.
Lord Caelion bowed from regulation distance, eyes sparing and considerate. "Permission to claim a figure later," he asked, tone careful enough to be a floor itself.
"Ask me again when the water thinks it's a good idea," I said. Hem Clause stitched a small, amused glimmer across my cuff: he/him.
Lady Thalia arrived with her chaperone, wearing Glassmere glass that had learned wax-quenching—it hummed instead of squealed. "Names first; steps after," she quoted, with a nod to our garden clause.
The first misaddress of the night—an old steward's automatic "prin—"—hit my cuffs and converted midair to "sir," neatly and without humiliation. He blinked, surprised to find his mouth useful, and smiled as if spared a sprain.
A murmur—wrong and thin—ran beneath the strings like cheap ink in water.
SYSTEM: Masque Binder (Dark/Etiquette) hidden among performers
Traits: Role Mask (imposes archaic parts), Consent Ventriloquy (forged yes), Step Tax (drains Oathbond per misstep), Glass Shiver (stress)
Terrain: hall/glass/bronze; edge-casts only; avoid loud Novas.
A bow's hair snagged a wrong note; a dancer's shadow wore someone else's outline. Role Masks spread like lace, trying to pin daughter/bride onto me, gallant/owner onto whoever took my hand.
Aurelia slid to hinge, shield not drawn, Mandate sheathed but heavy enough that indecency checked its posture. "Lane," she said.
"Namespring Seal—floor keyed." I wrote three small circles into the marble—one at noon, one at dawn, one beneath the dais—then linked them by Step Sentence into a chorus the room could walk.
Parties named as they name themselves; assent present and free; no consent ventriloquized through reflection or role.
The masks hesitated—just enough time to stitch nets.
"Glossary Net—gallery weave." Suture Screen unfurled under the balcony glass, Annotation printing a tiny dictionary every span (he/him; she/her; they/them; titles by ask not by assume). The first wave of mislabels turned to questions and slid off into the potted laurels to compost.
The Binder—a musician-shaped gap where consent should be—tilted its head and tried Step Tax, tugging at our Oathbond with every off-beat.
"Civic Rhythm—waltz cut," I hummed into the rail. The strings found our two; the room's breathing lined up. Our Oathbond rose like a tide that had remembered moon.
The thing lunged for my hem with Consent Ventriloquy—a forged "yes" written in the chandelier's mirror. My Hem Clause drank it and returned NULL with a prim cough.
Aurelia took the center with me, because we finish together even when the enemy is a rule that thinks it's a costume.
"Together," she said.
I split a Prism Mercy off a chandelier tear—three silent sub-lines crossing hinge, eye, and the grand clause at the Binder's heart. Aurelia laid Sunlit Verdict along the clean diagonal that ends roles without ending people. Glass didn't shiver. Bronze approved.
Role Masks unseamed into ribbon. The wrong murmur ran out of ink.
I poured White Mercy—partial into the Step Sentence, not as burst but as a long low kindness that made ankles forgive shoes and memories forgive rooms.
┌──────────── BALL OVERLAY ───────────┐
│ Threat: Masque Binder — dispersed │
│ Collateral: 0 fractures; 0 shame injuries │
│ Oathbond Harmony (peak): 98% │
│ Aegis Hymn: 27% residual │
│ MP: 12 / 21,100 │
│ New: Hem Clause; Step Sentence; Courtesy Declension │
└───────────────────────────────────────────┘
Dancing, Correctly
After the not-fight, the dance was finally a dance. I took Thalia through a figure that let her coat do the talking—Glassmere's wax-quenched hem sang in tune with our rail. Caelion took a turn and asked with every step; my Hem Clause rewrote a stray "my lady" drifting from some gallery mouth into the proper sir without making a scene of it.
One overeager noble blurted an indecent compliment at my hips; Courtesy Declension trimmed it to an admiration of tailoring, and Aurelia's sheathed Mandate added the world's lightest Shame until he discovered both eloquence and distance.
Her Majesty watched from noon, face all Court, hands all mother. No crown. No scepter. A posture that made chandeliers remember to be lamps.
When the third set ended, the musicians rested their wrists and the floor released its line like a page that had been read well.
The System slid a coin onto the ledger that tracks nights that could have gone wrong and didn't.
┌───────────────────────────────────┐
│ COURT EVENT — ROYAL BALL │
├───────────────────────────────────┤
│ Objective: Maintain house & names — ✔ │
│ Bonus: No fractures — PASS │
│ Oathbond ≥ 75% — PASS │
├───────────────────────────────────┤
│ Rewards: │
│ ▸ EXP +26,000 │
│ ▸ Court Scrip +130 │
│ ▸ Relic: Lamp-Tear Prism (chandelier) │
│ ▸ Skill: Courtesy Declension (unlocked)│
└───────────────────────────────────┘
We took the small right ends. I left a Sunline bow on the floor's edge: Names first; steps after. Ask; don't assume. No consent by costume. The marble kept it.
Back behind the cedar screens where law stops watching and wood remembers it is wood, our mother straightened a seam that was straight and looked away while committing kindness. "When you were small," she said, voice the temperature of old honey, "I put you in what I loved because I feared the world would not love what you would. Now you wear your name and the world adjusts its eyes. I am glad to have been wrong."
I swallowed half a pastille and most of my heart. "I'll keep writing the room until it remembers how to see," I said.
Aurelia bumped my shoulder with the rim—her liturgy for proud. "Still guarding my six?" I asked, because light words keep law supple.
"In a hall where roles sometimes think they outrank names?" she said, dry as good bread. "Especially."
We rejoined the music. The chandeliers practiced being morning in place, and the bells—satisfied to be law, not weapons—never needed to raise their voices to be heard.
The Hall of Nine Lamps relaxed into its second wind: strings purling like friendly gossip, chandeliers steady as constellations with good posture, marble floor gleaming the kind of clean that makes shoes reconsider their life choices.
My Cantor's vestment read me correctly—long coat, bellglass pleats, the sash's tiny leaf-gold clause bright enough for manners but too small for theater. My Hem Clause glimmered he/him in the cuff whenever attention got ideas. Aurelia kept that exact inch at my back that convinces rooms to behave.
┌──────────── BALL STATUS (SOCIAL) ───────────┐
│ Eirion — HP: 13,180 / 13,180 MP: 12 / 21,100 │
│ Aegis Hymn: 27% Oathbond: Linked (95%) │
│ Buffs: Court Key, Quiet Law, Hem Clause, Step Sentence │
│ Aurelia — HP: 12,460 / 12,460 │
│ Constraints: Indoors → edge-casts only; route via bronze/glass/water │
└──────────────────────────────────────────────┘
The Misaddress Derby (with Safety Rails)
First across the line: an elderly archivist with spectacles like two polite moons. "Your High—prin—" he started, momentum betraying him.
My cuff flashed a tiny sir; Courtesy Declension trimmed the word mid-air without bruising it. He blinked, delighted at his own correctness. "—sir! Your handwriting on the ledger was… devastatingly tidy."
"Thank you," I said, because truth is a good waltz partner.
Next, a pair of foreign envoys in capes the color of expensive misunderstandings. "We greet the Empress's daughter—"
Aurelia's eyebrow performed a silent seminar. My Hem Clause glimmered he/him; the envoys' words converted to "the Empress's son" so smoothly even the grammar looked relieved.
The pastry guild arrived as a tray with opinions. "My lady, might we tempt you with a sugared—"
"Sir," my cuff corrected, and Courtesy Declension reshelved "my lady" into "my good sir." Aurelia accepted two tartlets, the universal language of stand back from my twin.
Behind us, a cluster of junior nobles attempted to whisper. The Step Sentence caught their commentary and forced it to scan in iambic polite-ameter. "Is that—he—oh—sir—he's—very—pretty—yes—indeed." They looked impressed by their unexpected poetry and bowed to the concept of grammar.
Somewhere in the violas, a leftover role echo from the earlier Masque tried to re-impose bride/gallant on the next figure. It reached for my back like a coat someone else had ordered for me.
"Echo at two o'clock," Aurelia murmured.
"Echo Trap," I breathed, laying a palm to the rail and sliding a Peal under the varnish.
New Technique (Built): Echo Trap — Glossary Net + Step Sentence + Peal (bronze); catches lingering role echoes and converts them to harmless applause swells on the downbeat. First three echoes auto-resolve.
The echo landed as a small, well-timed clap from the balcony instead of a costume. The first violin looked pleased to be right for reasons she did not need to know.
Lord Caelion approached at regulation distance. "Permission to borrow the two of this waltz, sir?" My cuff approved; Aurelia performed the microscopic nod that means you may and I am watching you in the same pixel.
We turned. A young knight blurted, "By the Lamps, she—"
"He," corrected my cuff, while Courtesy Declension flipped the rest into, "—he dances like a bell remembers the road."
"Well recovered," I said. He blushed into competence.
Lady Thalia arrived mid-figure, chaperone in tow, Glassmere's wax-quenched hem humming correctly. "Sir," she said, perfect on the first try. She offered her hand with the bravery of someone determined to pass the class. A distant aunt hissed, "Ask your bride—" and got pre-trimmed to "ask your guide." Even her fan looked grateful.
A courier tripped, sending a flurry of place cards like startled moths. The cards tried to assign titles as they fell—old script reaching for new people.
"Civility Zone—card table," I murmured. Two hair Sunlines braced the linen; mislabels whooshed into questions and slid off into a gracious pile labeled To Be Confirmed Politely. The courier vowed eternal friendship to both of us and to tables.
A baron with more mustache than sense made an attempt on the classic indecorous compliment. "Your—hips—uh—"
My Courtesy Declension snipped the sentence into "your tailoring" so cleanly his mustache bowed in thanks. Aurelia's sheathed Mandate added a light Shame debuff; he discovered the fascinating ecology of the far punch bowl.
A gaggle of children circled, giggling, then delivered their verdict with courtroom solemnity. "Sir Eirion looks like a pretty prince." My cuff sparkled he/him in bright agreement. Children bowed. Aurelia melted one degree and smuggled them tartlets like contraband justice.
The Culprit Behind the Comedy
Misaddresses grew playful rather than pointed, but the frequency hinted at more than ordinary enthusiasm. The chandeliers' glass—those tear prisms—were bruising a shade: tiny Masque spores clinging from the earlier binder, multiplying by reflection.
"Glass is a garden," Aurelia murmured. "We weed."
"Prism Grooming," I said, palming a prism with Lysithea's flat and breathing a thread of Peal through it.
New Technique (Built): Prism Grooming — Bell Sutures + Peal (glass) + Namespring Seal; brushes Masque residues out of chandelier prisms; converts future misaddress attempts into compliment couplets ('Sir Eirion—grace in steps'). Safe indoors; no shiver.
A gentle, invisible combing passed through the chandeliers; mascara of mistakes came away; the room's gaze learned to see without guessing.
With the glass groomed, the ball discovered a new sport: attempting compliments that fit. The rail helped.
New Technique (Built): Compliment Couplet — Concord Peal + Courtesy Declension keyed to rail; shapes clumsy praise into two-beat, in-bounds couplets. E.g., "Sir Eirion—tailor's art / Aurelia—iron heart."
For ten golden minutes, the hall rhymed by accident. No one bled. The chandeliers preened. The floor decided it loved its job.
┌──────────── SOCIAL OVERLAY ───────────┐
│ Misaddress conversions: 47 → 0 injuries │
│ Echo Trap: 3/3 triggers (applause only) │
│ Prism Grooming: complete (no residues) │
│ Oathbond Harmony (peak): 98% │
│ MP: 10 / 21,100 Aegis Hymn: 28% │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
Little Right Ends
Aurelia guided a wayward countess's elbow out of oncoming traffic with the same finesse she uses on spearheads. "Lane," she advised, and the countess, astonished to be competent, obeyed.
A junior steward misaddressed me on purpose—testing the rails. The Hem Clause flicked sir; Courtesy Declension pruned his sentence into an apology and a workable compliment in one tidy motion. He turned the color of strawberries and vowed aloud to ask first. The hall approved.
Our mother, half-hidden by cedar, adjusted a cuff that needed no adjusting and placed two lemon-thyme pastilles where architecture couldn't indict her. No crown. No scepter. A quiet crime spree of care.
When the final set closed, I set a Sunline bow on the marble's edge with what the night had earned: Names first; steps after. Ask; don't assume. No consent by costume. Praise with couplets, not grabs.
The marble kept it like a good secret.
┌───────────────────────────────────┐
│ ROYAL BALL — PART II (SOCIAL) │
├───────────────────────────────────┤
│ Objectives: Maintain house, correct misaddress — ✔ │
│ Collateral: 0 fractures; 0 shame injuries │
│ Bonus: Oathbond ≥ 75% — PASS │
├───────────────────────────────────┤
│ Rewards: │
│ ▸ EXP +24,500 │
│ ▸ Court Scrip +120 │
│ ▸ Skill: Echo Trap (unlocked) │
│ ▸ Skill: Prism Grooming (unlocked) │
│ ▸ Skill: Compliment Couplet (unlocked) │
│ ▸ Mastery: Courtesy Declension +1 │
└───────────────────────────────────┘
We stepped into the little corridor where wood remembers being trees. Aurelia bumped my shoulder with the rim—her dialect for you did fine; also, I saw everything.
"Still guarding my six?" I asked, because light words keep law supple.
"In a ballroom determined to admire a man as if that were a brand-new idea," she said, dry as good bread. "Especially."
We split the pastilles. The chandeliers practiced being morning in place, and the hall—at last—saw exactly who was dancing and liked him as himself.