Masques and Mirrors

The notice appeared at dawn.

Pinned to the gate of the upper court by a silver nail, its edges embossed with bloodline crests. A scroll, sealed in wax bearing not a House sigil—but the Imperial Chrysanthemum.

All noble students are hereby summoned to attend the Midwinter Masque of Unification, hosted at the Grand Hall of Umbrelspire, by order of the Emperor's High Advisor. Attendance is mandatory. Attire must reflect House values. Masks required.

At the bottom, in smaller text:

Threadless may attend in service or witness only. By invitation of the ranked.

Virel read it with a steady face.

She was not invited.

She would not serve.

But she would attend.

By midday, she found her way to the lesser-known tailors' quarter near the east wall—where discarded ceremonial fabrics were sold by weight, not by name. There, in a quiet stall run by a blind seamstress, she bartered two scrolls and a truth she'd overheard for a length of black threadsteel silk—light as breath, impossible to enchant.

She spent the next evening alone in her room.

Weaving.

Not with thread.

With will.

When she emerged, her mask was razor-thin, shaped like a crescent drawn in ash: black with faint silver patterning—thorn and threadwork fused.

Not a sigil.

Not a house.

But a warning.

She entered the Grand Hall alone.

The guards didn't stop her. They didn't recognize her. The rankless were always invisible unless they made noise.

She didn't make noise.

She made space.

The kind others noticed without understanding why.

Inside, the Hall glowed with illusion-fire and glass banners floating overhead.

Noble students twirled in gilded masks and power-colored cloaks. Laughter sparkled like wine. Magics flared in subtle gestures—harmless, stylish, performative.

And she walked among them like a blade dressed for diplomacy.

Heads turned.

No one knew who she was.

That was the point.

Selvine passed her once—paused—then smiled faintly.

"I knew you'd come," he said.

"I never left," she replied.

And disappeared back into the masquerade.

The ballroom floor spun in layers—outer circles of dance, inner circles of politics, and a dead center where nothing moved except for gazes.

That's where he stood.

Rhaiven D'Ascalon.

A name recently added to the Umbrelspire rolls. No empire crest. No ancestral oath in the archives. Foreign, but not unfamiliar.

He wore red silk embroidered with gold flame, his mask plain white with a single crimson stroke drawn over one eye.

He didn't dance.

He watched.

Until Virel passed within three strides.

Then he moved.

"You don't walk like you're watching," he said, appearing beside her.

"I'm not."

"You walk like you're counting."

Virel didn't look at him. "Should I be flattered?"

"You should be careful."

She turned then, just slightly.

"And you should be quiet."

He smiled—not mocking. Amused.

"You're not from here," he said. "Not truly. You don't belong to any House, but they still watch you. Which means you're either useful…"

He leaned in.

"…or dangerous."

"I'm neither," she said.

"You're both," he corrected. "And you hide it well. But not from me."

He extended a hand.

She didn't take it.

Instead, she asked, "Why are you here?"

"Diplomacy. Or so they say."

"And truly?"

"Because tyrants bore me. And empires that fear their own Threadless are empires that are rotting."

He tilted his head.

"Tell me, little ghost, when you cut the threads, do you pull slow… or snap fast?"

Virel's voice dropped to a whisper. "You shouldn't ask questions you'd run from the answer to."

He laughed.

Not cruelly.

Almost fondly.

"I like you," he said. "You remind me of something sharp I once survived."

Then he vanished back into the crowd before she could ask what he meant.

From the dais, Maelion Calverrex watched them both.

But didn't speak.

Not yet.

In a curtained alcove near the far side of the ballroom, five masked nobles sat in a half-circle, sipping from narrow glasses and murmuring like predators at rest.

The game had already begun when Virel approached.

"Three Truths," someone called. "Join us, if you dare."

It wasn't a request.

It was a test.

She inclined her head once, stepped into the circle, and lowered herself onto a cushion of midnight velvet without hesitation.

The rules were simple.

Each player spoke three things: two known truths and one concealed truth, spoken as if it were a lie.

The others must decide which statement is real, which is performative, and which thread should never have been tugged.

The cost of guessing wrong was public rumor.

The reward? Silence.

The first noble spoke of a sibling exiled, a curse broken, and a secret heir born under the wrong star.

The next offered a duel lost, a love betrayed, and a seal broken by a bribe.

Virel listened carefully—not to the words, but the threads.

Each emotion leaked trace strands of magic—joy, shame, pride, fear. All visible, if one knew how to watch.

Her turn came.

She let the pause stretch just long enough to shape the tension.

Then:

"I was born without a name."

"I once set fire to my own house."

"I served as a royal memory-keeper in disguise."

Laughter, murmurs.

Someone scoffed: "The middle one's too dramatic."

Another muttered: "The last sounds like nonsense."

But one girl—Calverrex-blooded, if the gold lace at her wrist was true—tilted her head and stared too long.

"The first one," she whispered. "That's the lie."

Selvine, seated quietly at the edge of the group, smiled—just barely.

The votes were cast.

Then the flare broke.

A Calverrex cousin—Orien, loud and smug—stood to speak his round and slipped.

Literally. His sentence collapsed mid-way, and he blurted something unplanned:

"Maelion's trials on the Threadless were never sanctioned—he paid off the—"

Silence crushed the alcove.

Too much.

Too fast.

Too real.

His voice stopped like a blade had fallen across it.

His eyes widened.

Everyone turned toward Virel.

But she hadn't moved.

Her hands lay still in her lap.

Her posture calm.

Yet threads still shimmered faintly in the air between her wrist and Orien's words—a wisp of altered perception, just enough pressure to tip truth into exposure.

Only Selvine's gaze followed it.

Only he saw.

After the group scattered, he found her by the frost-glass balustrade.

"You nudged it," he said.

She didn't answer.

"You didn't need to."

Still, silence.

"You're playing very close to fire, Virelya."

She sipped her wine.

"I don't play," she murmured.

"I weave."

The masque thinned near midnight.

The air had grown thick with too many enchantments and too much wine. Nobles lingered in corners, laughter brittle with performance. Musicians changed tempo from imperial march to subtle waltz, signaling the evening's ebb.

Virel stood beneath a sculpture of twisted silver vines, alone, gaze lowered.

She hadn't spoken in half an hour.

She didn't need to.

People had begun whispering about her without provocation.

Who was she?

What house does she represent?

Why does her mask not carry any crest?

They hadn't noticed the change yet.

Not until the old man approached.

He moved slowly—too confident for a servant, too old to be a student. He wore robes of scholar's blue, his mask faceless but carved with tiny mirror-panes like eyes upon eyes.

He bowed—not deeply. Not politely.

But with recognition.

"I see the echo walks again," he murmured.

Virel stiffened.

The man reached toward her mask—not to touch, but to gesture at its upper left edge.

"You do not know what that mark is, do you?"

She turned, just slightly. "It's threadwork. Random."

"No," he said gently. "It's a crest. Buried in the Fourth Epoch. Used only by one who bore the title Custodian of Echoes."

Her blood chilled.

Only one person had ever carried that title: Elandra.

He stepped back, voice low enough no one else could hear.

"She was not erased, you know. She was woven out—like thread snipped from a banner so the pattern remained."

"Who are you?" Virel asked.

"Once, I was a witness."

"To what?"

"To betrayal. And to a woman who chose memory over power."

He began to leave, but paused beside her.

"Be careful," he whispered. "The Empire does not forget the patterns it unravels. And you wear one like a flame."

Then he was gone.

Virel didn't breathe.

Not for a full minute.

Then she reached up slowly and touched her mask.

There it was—etched into the threadsteel in the thinnest shimmer: a spiral mirrored thorn.

Not cast.

Not woven.

Not hers.

It had appeared.

From her magic?

Or from something older still inside her?

She didn't remove the mask.

She couldn't.

Not yet.

The summons came not by scroll, nor whisper, but by space.

A ring of students parted near the obsidian banquet dais.

At its center sat Maelion Calverrex, back straight, robe immaculate, mask untouched by sweat or spellglow. Around him—empty chairs.

Except one.

He raised a finger.

Did not beckon.

Did not gesture.

Just pointed to the chair across from him.

And waited.

Virel did not hesitate.

She walked through the silence like it bowed for her.

When she sat, not a word was spoken.

Not yet.

Not until Maelion tapped one finger against the crystal stem of his glass and murmured, "Threadless."

The word cracked like glass under heat.

She smiled. Barely.

"Crest-bound."

A few nobles sucked in breath. Others leaned closer.

Maelion's voice didn't rise. "Do you enjoy disrupting hierarchy, or is it simply what passes for fun in your tier?"

Virel met his gaze through the mask.

"I don't disrupt," she said. "I rearrange. There's a difference."

"Indeed. Rearrangement implies design."

"Exactly."

He leaned forward, just a shade. "You're bleeding truth into a court designed for lies."

"And you," she said softly, "are mistaking tradition for strength."

Maelion's mouth curled at the edge. Not quite a smile. Not quite a snarl.

Then, with deliberate calm: "There are names in this room that could silence you."

Virel didn't blink.

"There are threads in this room that could choke yours."

He studied her.

Long enough to make even the servers glance away.

Then:

"Then perhaps," he said, "you should try weaving more carefully."

She sipped from his glass—without asking.

Set it down.

"And perhaps," she whispered, "the court needs rethreading."

He said nothing else.

But when she stood, he did not stop her.

Which, for Maelion, was the closest thing to admitting he couldn't.

She didn't return to 13C.

Not immediately.

Instead, Virel climbed the inner spiral of the western observatory, up to a disused dormer where the air smelled of cold stars and burnt parchment. A place untouched by politics or memory.

Here, she sat before the shard-mirror tucked beneath the eaves.

She reached for the mask.

And pulled.

Nothing.

The threadsteel didn't shift. Didn't stretch. Didn't release.

It had fused—not to her skin, but to her aura.

To her Threadweaving.

To her self.

She pulled again.

Harder.

A flicker of silver coiled around her wrist—reflected only in the mirror.

The spiral thorn symbol shimmered faintly along the mask's edge, alive now, a mark not placed but grown.

It had woven itself into her.

She staggered back.

Heart pounding.

Hands trembling.

Only for a second.

Then, slowly, she lowered herself to the floor.

Breathed in once.

Out.

Then whispered, "So that's the cost."

Not of the mask.

Of becoming something they couldn't categorize.

Not Threadless.

Not noble.

Not erased.

Not heir.

Just Virelya.

Not hidden.

Woven.

She looked at her reflection.

The mask did not smile.

But it did not fall.

She pressed one hand to her chest and whispered, "Then let them see what they've created."

The moonlight sharpened behind her.

A single strand of silver thread floated in the air—unanchored, waiting.

She took it.

And began to weave.