The ballroom shimmered with the kind of light that came not from chandeliers or fireglass sconces, but from expectation. Gilded pillars rose like fluted horns to the ceiling where golden crescents of chimeglass caught and refracted the morning sun. It was custom in Aevarra to host the Post-Rite Assembly not in the cool hush of evening, but in full daylight—so that truth, or at least the performance of it, could be seen clearly.
Princess Alira moved through the room with the grace of someone raised in full view of that truth. Her gown clung to her like the prayer of an artisan. Each movement set off faint musical responses from the embedded glass-beads along her hem, tuned to Aevarran B-flat, a tone of deference. Every step she took murmured: I am not your threat.
Her new husband stood at the edge of a dais, speaking with one of the Trade Ministers. Kaelen of Surinna was a tall man, as everyone kept observing, but height was where most compliments ended. He wore his ceremonial garb well—bronzed cuffs, Surinnan silk in storm-gray—but the fabric hung on him like protocol, not possession.
She approached.
Kaelen looked up and smiled—a gesture of politeness, not affection. "Your Highness," he said, voice smooth, studied. "You look... musical."
Alira paused before responding. "That's very kind. And very Aevarran."
He chuckled lightly, though he didn't quite understand the joke. "I'm learning. Slowly."
"Yes. Slowly."
An awkward silence settled between them. Around them, nobles from both kingdoms danced their conversation in layered harmonies—each phrase paired with subtle tonal cues embedded in accent, breath, or clothing. Kaelen, unfamiliar with such nuance, stood outside the song.
She let him flounder in it a moment longer before offering, "Have you met the House of Treble yet?"
"Only the younger brother. The one with the limp. He offered me... pickled flower stalks?"
"He was offering you his sister's hand. It's symbolic. You should have accepted."
Kaelen blinked. "But I'm already married."
Alira gave him a patient smile. "In Aevarra, there are many kinds of unions."
Before he could respond, the Queen approached.
Queen Myrrin moved like the shadow of a bell—her presence never loud, but always resonant. Her dress was old court violet, a color reserved for matriarchs and archivists. Upon her shoulders were draped two sashes, one threaded with clef-knots denoting her as a Keeper of the Binding Lore, the other adorned in the rust-red of old bloodlines.
"Alira," she said, offering the barest nod to Kaelen. "You've fulfilled your duty. Now fulfill your purpose. Come."
Alira obeyed, not because she had to, but because she had been trained to find the obedience within herself. Kaelen hesitated, unsure if he was meant to follow.
"Stay, husband," Alira said, without looking back. "Learn to listen."
Queen Myrrin led her to a circle of seated dignitaries near the Fountain of Resolve—a spiraling water feature tuned to ripple at the frequency of a human heart under stress. The closer one stood to it, the more revealing it became.
Present were the Envoy of the Church (a woman with her eyes veiled in faith-cloth), the Warden of the South Gate, the Chancellor of Records, and—unexpectedly—the youngest heir of House Ellisar, known for their loyalty to the Eye.
The Queen began without ceremony. "The Rite faltered."
The Envoy stirred. "There was no sign of the Ley."
"Only silence," the Warden confirmed. "A silence that speaks."
Alira looked to her mother. "You blame me."
"We must interpret," said the Chancellor gently. "Not blame."
"A union that does not awaken the Ley is not a curse," the Queen intoned. "But it is an omen."
The young Ellisar leaned forward, voice soft as rain. "Or a sign that one of the notes was... unwilling."
Alira did not flinch. "I played as taught."
"You played as expected," the Queen corrected. "But the Ley listens for truth, not obedience."
A silence fell over the group, more powerful than any chord.
The Envoy broke it. "There will be speculation."
"Let them speculate," Alira said.
"And if your brother is blamed?"
A pause. A breath.
"Then let them listen more carefully."
—
Time passed like soft refrains. Nobles came and went, offering fealty or favors, gifts wrapped in metaphor. One lord from House Veere presented a dulcimer carved from stormwood—rare, because it grows only where lightning has struck thrice. Another offered a mirror that sang back whatever was said before it, two seconds too late.
She accepted them all with poise.
When she finally found a moment alone near the harp-shaped window recesses, she exhaled for the first time that morning.
Then came the sound of parting doors. Not the grand ones. The side ones. The ones meant for staff.
Two figures entered.
One was Serenya, her coat unmistakable.
The other—
Rion.
He walked with the arrogant calm of someone who had already paid the price for rebellion. His clothes were formal, but not ceremonial: brown tunic, ash-grey sash, and a zither strapped to his back like a sheathed blade.
Conversations faltered. Heads turned.
Alira's breath caught—just once—but her expression remained still.
Her mother rose. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?"
Rion stopped at the foot of the stairs leading to the high circle.
"No meaning," he said. "Only music."
Gasps. Murmurs.
"You were forbidden," the Chancellor hissed.
"And yet, here I am."
Serenya stood beside him, unreadable.
Alira stepped forward.
The ballroom, once humming with conversation, fell into the silence between notes.
She met Rion's eyes.
"Play," she said.
And gods help her—he did.