The hall was not built; it was grown. Sheets of mineral glass were braced by thin ribs, as if bones had decided to become architecture instead of a body. Above, the dome caught the glow of fungi and fractured it into thousands of sharp tongues of light—too sharp to be called beautiful without a small footnote: beware. Every step cast a ripple of sound that broke apart before it could become whole. No voice here remained intact—it was always returned in fragments of itself.
Rae Althorne stood at the threshold, breath colliding with distilled cold, staring into the Hall of Mirrors—famous for one habit: it returned all who entered in a form more honest than they believed themselves to be. At its center stretched a glass table—not round, not square, but a vast lens whose edge was brushed with deliberate fractures. Beneath it, the cracks continued across the floor, a map that refused any legend. Each fissure reflected faces into mosaics. For a moment, Rae saw herself in twenty versions—the weary, the hesitant, the one longing to leave, the one aching to know.
The emblems of the realms ringed the walls: the silk-nerve weave of Webspire framed in spirals; the crossed hammer and root of Ironroot; the pulsing pane of Glassveil itself; the faintly glowing small wings of Lumendel; Pelagor's stylized water-teeth, curved into arcs; and the humans of Chasmor—simple, a hanging rail with vein-bolts. Above them all, not hanging yet unmistakably present, lay the mark of the Overlord: three black-layered irises, a gaze felt without needing to be displayed.
Sythri was already there. The Matron of Webspire stood on the table's left, her weaver's robe falling like a curtain that knew when to close and when to let the wind in. Her gentle green eyes caught the light and released it again, like someone who disliked keeping anything for too long. When Rae, Lua, and Brug stepped into the circle of delegates, Sythri merely dipped her head—a small motion that reminded Rae of the faint sound a thread makes as it slips perfectly into a knot.
The hall filled. Arachneans shifted along the side cables, checking sound-knots and keeping the mirrors from quivering too violently. Silikae stood on high balconies, their prismatic bodies shattering light into signals only silica could read. Lumendel fairies drifted slowly near the fungus lamps, their wings sketching small circles like notes too shy to be played. Ironroot goblins—grey-skinned, yellow-eyed—stacked crates of ore samples in the corner, moving with the careful precision of those who trusted objects over words. The Pelagor—two delegates—wore damp robes, thin membranes at their throats pulsing faintly; they refused chairs, preferring to stand barefoot, reading the world through the soles of their feet.
At the far end of the table stood an empty chair, framed by a mirror so clean it threatened to erase its own edges. The Overlord's seat. Empty here did not mean absent. Here, empty was a message: I am present without needing to sit.
Rae placed herself behind Lua—who had promised Veyne the night before to come without swearing loyalty to another's altar—while Brug stood slightly to the side, like a stone that could move. From this vantage, Rae could see how the light danced across the floor's fractures, like veins that had never quite severed. She drew a breath—three in, five out. The sonar in her chest—Tholl's term—swept the space, taking its measure. The hall was not angry. It was watchful.
"—representing the interests of the silk routes, ensuring every crosser pays a fair toll so the bridges do not fall," the Webspire envoy's voice flowed, smooth but never soft.
"We," interrupted the Ironroot delegate with polite terseness, "represent hammer and forge. Without whole ore, your silk is nothing but thread to snare your own feet."
"Chasmor," said a human voice—Rudran. Rae stiffened. The head of post, who in recent days had sided more with orders than his own hearing, stood straight as if his bones owed a debt to the line. "We represent hours worked and safety kept. Hold your ceremony, but sweat must return as food."
Rae felt Brug's chin shift—a silent check on sharper words. Lua stayed calm, the root-staff in her hand like a twig that knew when to be an arrow.
Then, from the right of the empty chair, they arrived: three human-tall figures in layered glass robes, faces hidden behind mirror-masks without eyeholes—as if they looked out through the world, not at it. At their chests hung small disks etched with the triple iris. They walked without sound, slicing the room's murmur into tidy pieces. Rae heard no footsteps; she heard intent.
The central envoy—the tallest—placed a hand on the glass table. One second. Two. The mirror quivered faintly. "On behalf of Overlord Noctarion," the voice came smooth as polished glass—slick, impossible to grip, "we welcome the allied realms. The Balancing will begin when Glassveil is ready. We bring the rhythm guide and eligibility list."
"A list?" one of the goblins asked—not Gruk-Tal, but carrying the same solid presence of someone who had once lit a forge while their child lay fevered. "Does the ceremony now require—"
"—a Synchron Operator," the envoy on the right cut in, finishing the thought with a precision meant to sting. "One in a thousand may be suitable. One in ten thousand chosen. The state needs an obedient ear."
That last word—obedient—slipped into the room like a fine needle. Rae's skin rejected it. Obedient to whom? To the World's Pulse, or to command?
The hall's ceiling dimmed by half—not from less light, but because the mirrors decided to reflect only what was necessary. Sythri did not move. Rae knew that if the Matron tilted her head even slightly, it meant she was listening—not to words, but to knots. Lua shifted her foot a fraction—small enough to say: hold on; the current is about to change.
The envoy on the left tapped the table—just enough to make the lens's fractures glint. "We also bring proof of sabotage," he said evenly. "Look at the southern corner's reflection—a new line—not there last night." He pointed, and the mirror obeyed. A small, slanting crack, as if another needle had once tried to write on the surface.
"That's from yesterday's cleaning," objected a Glassveil guard, the tremor behind his glass veil born not of fear, but anger. "Not sabotage. Reflections magnify the small."
"That is how cracks speak," the central envoy replied. "Small, then multiplied." The smile was invisible, but Rae felt the intent—the push toward fear. "Let us speak of responsibility. Let us start with the list of Operator candidates. We hear a Chasmor laborer without registry rescued a Webspire weaver from a jammed knot on the bridge last week—Rae…"
"Althorne," Sythri said before he could finish. Her voice was short, sharp, like a thread that cut flesh without apology. "And not cheap." Her gaze never left the envoy. "Cheap goods don't save my knot. Cheap goods aren't entrusted by Veyne with a needle. Cheap goods aren't given a seat here."
The room held its breath in a single line. Sythri's words shifted the temperature by degrees. The central envoy turned, not with his head, but with his body—like the mask refused to give up another reflection. "Matron," the voice slid smoother still, "we did not name a price. We named a function."
"Put a price in your mouth and your duty will sound more honest," Sythri returned.
Rae did not turn. She knew her eyes would be read by the mirrors; better to be a voice in her own body than a face in someone else's. In the floor's fissures, she saw the Matron's reflection standing alongside her own—two lines refusing to drift apart.
"Meeting!" barked the Glassveil guide—trained to cut without tearing. "Agenda: alignment of cracks, distribution of hours, route protection, and Synchron Operator." A swallow. "Please, envoys."
Words, numbers, and promises began to circle. Ironroot demanded ore untaxed by "chasm tolls." Webspire demanded resin to replace knots bitten by hot winds. Pelagor offered current-maps marking lethal air pockets. The fairies demanded lamps that spared children's spores. Chasmor's humans—Rudran—presented timebooks, promising to obey the ceremony if their families were matched with guarantees.
Rae heard it all as if seated on the edge of a stone organ: measuring rhythm, not content. Then, beneath it, she caught something else. Ting—ting… ting. Not water. The Silikae were tapping the balcony floor—short pattern, repeated: danger. She glanced up. Three Silikae answered in kind. She didn't know their language, but the tempo lit something in her chest—tempo shift… trap.
The central envoy tapped the table once. "Very well," he said, "you may all bring your wishes. The palace brings solutions. The balancing requires a Synchron Operator to run the Listener—an instrument that reads fractures and tells the Pulse when to hold, when to release."
"When to release?" echoed a Lumendel whose face was ageless-youth, voice shivering its wings. "Since when is breath commanded, not guided?"
"Since the world has houses and taxes," the left envoy replied sweetly.
Lua lifted her staff. "Balancing must not replace song with order," she said flatly. "Veyne's needle delays the wound so the mind can think. A Synchron Operator is an attempt to write a single brain for a body made of many."
"Who here," the right envoy smiled without a mouth, "is afraid of order?" He looked at Rae. "You? They say your ear is special."
"'Special' if left to choose, 'dangerous' if forced to march," Rae finally spoke. Her voice sounded to her own ears like someone else's; the Hall shattered it into enough shards to scatter. "I am not a tool to silence the World's Pulse."
A ripple of held breath swept the circle. The human delegates exchanged glances—some impressed, others calling her mad. A goblin rubbed his chin, smiling the small smile that meant courage. The Pelagor tilted their heads, neck membranes blooming faintly.
Then the glass sang. No words. A long tone from the walls—a frequency no human made. Rae held her breath; the floor's reflections blinked—once, twice—like an eye deciding. The envoys turned to each other quickly. They hadn't called the tone, but they knew when to use it.
The fungus lamps trembled. The map of cracks on the lens-table faded, then returned in a new arrangement—as if unseen hands smoothed its hair before a portrait. The central envoy raised his iris disk. "Proof," he said, "that the fractures are ready for alignment. All that remains is the Operator."
He tapped. Two bare-faced glass guards entered from the retinal corridor—a narrow passage behind the mirrors. "We will conduct synchronization measurements on the candidate. Meanwhile, the meeting continues."
Rae felt Sythri move without sound. The Matron slid through the shadow of cables; she arrived at Rae's side without the mirrors protesting. "Don't go," she whispered, eyes fixed on the envoy. "It's not measuring, it's a threshold."
"A threshold for what?" Rae kept her voice tight.
"Ownership," Sythri answered. "They'll mark you in a way you can't see, naming your breath as theirs. You're not cheap goods, Rae Althorne. Remember."
That phrase—not cheap—set something growing in Rae's bones. Long ago, in Webspire, Sythri had shielded her once with those words. Now, the same note, sharper edge.
The right envoy glided closer, as smooth as thread. "Rae Althorne," he said—no question—"come with us. Only to measure."
Lua turned her staff, leaning forward half a step. Brug shifted into the posture of weariness—his trick for closing space. A Glassveil guard tried to speak, but the mirror swallowed the sound, returning it as a whisper even its owner didn't recognize.
"If you refuse, we record it as disobedience to the ceremony," said the central envoy, flat. "Disobedience has a number. Numbers have consequences."
Rae drew breath—three in; five out. She saw the floor's fractures shift a single degree, as if the Hall winked. On the balcony, the Silikae tapped quick—danger. The Pelagor in the corner pulled their robes close, membranes fluttering. Goblins measured the distance to the nearest side-door. Lumendel lowered their wings.
Sythri slipped a sliver of resin from her robe—almost invisible—and pressed it into Rae's palm. "If they throw the fine net," she murmured, "break this. It will grow teeth for a moment."
The right envoy held out a glass veil—cloth that was no cloth, dripping light. Rae stepped back half a pace. Lua moved first—her staff tapped once on the ground: no. A short tone sliced the air. The mirror frowned—yes, mirrors can frown—and their reflections doubled for a blink, creating enough distortion to shift the plan.
The meeting broke—quietly, dangerously. Ironroot rose; Arachneans slid on cables; Pelagor whistled low; Lumendel lifted toward the lamps. The Overlord envoys stepped back a pace—not retreating, recalculating.
"Continue the agenda," Sythri called clearly, her voice refusing to fracture. "If the ceremony is truly for all, then all are heard first. We—Webspire—demand a guarantee: the Operator—whoever they are—cannot be taken without witness threads."
"A decision is needed," Rudran snapped, clinging to rules like someone gripping a rail above a chasm. "A decision with voice and seal. Not kidnapping mid-meeting."
That word—kidnap—bounced through the mirrors, multiplying, then vanishing. The envoys disliked a word that demanded repeating. The central envoy folded his hands. "Fine. We'll demonstrate first. Our Glassveil Listener is here." He signaled. From the retinal corridor, three crates were wheeled in—glass, metal, vein-fungus. A large disk like Tholl's on his ship was set onto the lens-table. Cables snaked into the surface cracks. Fungus lamps adjusted their hue.
Rae wished to look away, but not looking never made things unhappen. She edged forward, behind Sythri and Lua. The Listener came alive—not light, not sound, but an almost-sound that brushed the backs of her teeth. The floor's fractures gathered; the lens now reflected something like harmony. The envoy pointed. "With a Synchron Operator, this harmony becomes command. Without one, it's just a map, and a map can't close a chasm."
"A map remembers the road," said Lua. "A command erases choice."
"Choice wastes time," the left envoy countered, "and time—unfortunately for romantics—eats people."
"A romantic is one who clings to truth even when time demands payment," Brug muttered to no one in particular.
The demonstration began. The Listener called a frequency; the Hall answered. The reflected fractures moved like a charmed serpent. Rae heard the distant Pulse—not here, but nearer. The envoy touched the iris disk on his chest. "Without an Operator," the central envoy said, "we can nudge a little." He pressed. The fractures obeyed a single step. The room exhaled. Heat rose in Rae's gut. This was wrong. Fractures were not hair to be combed on a whim.
"Enough," Sythri cut in. "This hall is not a cage. We are not here to watch an animal taught to turn."
"Matron," the envoy slid back into silk, "we respect your bridges. And—" his gaze slid to Rae, "—the ear that saved one of your weavers. Let this instrument hold the world a moment."
"You forget," said Sythri, "the world holds the hand that holds it."
Rae almost laughed from exhaustion. She looked at the Listener, spotted a faint line—a stitch—between two reflections. The Sutura mark—small, sly—flickered and vanished. Veyne. The pulse-needle inside Rae's robe felt heavier, as if asking for an opinion.
A courier burst in from the side door, breath jagged. He whispered to a Glassveil guard; the guard turned, masking panic with stiffness. "An arrest outside—"
The central envoy struck the table—hard this time. "We continue," he said, command sliding in. "Operator—"
The hall dimmed entirely for a quarter of a breath. Not long. Enough. A fine net fell from the rim of mirrors—nearly invisible. The Silikae tapped wild: danger! Rae turned; Lua lifted her staff; Brug already had the bone-fungus blade in hand. The net angled toward Rae—not accident, not mistake.
Rae crushed the resin in her palm. In an instant, the splinter grew teeth, biting through the threads. The net barely touched, but the sound it made tearing—ressss—was like forcing a dream awake. Sythri flicked two fingers—Arachnean signal—and on the cables above, two weavers dropped hooks, snagging the net outside the circle.
Chaos did not explode; it seeped—more dangerous. The right envoy almost smiled. "Technical fault," he said. "We apologize." The central envoy raised his hand—a signal to act now to those awaiting command.
Two glass guards lunged—not for Rae, but for Lua—trying to separate rhythm from staff. Brug slammed one, turning the world into impact and scrape. The Pelagor whistled, drawing water beneath the floor to swell upward. A goblin tossed a small bolt—old habit: if you don't know what to do, give something to gravity. Lumendel dimmed the lamps—sweet drowsiness—stealing the mirrors' vista.
"Come," Sythri said into Rae's ear. "Retinal corridor. Now."
They slipped through a fold in the mirrors, a gap beneath the cable bedding. Behind, the Hall had a backside: narrow corridors of frosted glass that reflected only shadow, not face. The meeting's voices came as briny water—present, uninterested in being translated.
"A Synchron Operator," Sythri spoke quickly, moving fast, "is bound to the Listener. Not synchronized to the world—to pressure. They'll hang a spindle on your chest, force the Pulse to hold when command says hold. You'll hear screams that never reach a voice. It breaks people in their valves."
"Why me?" Rae half-asked, half-resented the air.
"Because your ear understands even when you don't want it to," Sythri said. "Because they want to buy what isn't for sale. Because you—" she stopped, forcing Rae to meet her eyes—"are not cheap goods."
The phrase built a new spine in Rae. She nodded—a small motion saying fine, I'll carry the weight of your words. "What's your plan?"
"Exit through the reflection gallery and rejoin from Ironroot's side. There, the mirrors are duller—more stone. Brug and Lua can circle back into the ring. We break their rhythm, not their heads."
"And if they move first?"
"Then we steal a minute from the world." Sythri turned. "And we spend it on choice."
They were nearly at the gallery when two figures emerged from shadow—not Glassveil guards. Mirror robes, black iris at the chest, movement like reflection. Sythri froze, one finger lifted—Arachnean for pull back. Too late. The floor beneath Rae shifted—a thin glass plate rotating like an eye's iris.
She leapt back, but one figure had already raised a tube—a short glass needle, hollow-headed. Sedative, her mind named it before fear could. She ducked; the needle cut air, leaving cold.
Sythri flung a pinch of resin—hooks appeared, catching the attacker's wrist long enough for the needle to strike glass—shatter—formalin flooding the air. The second figure swung a mirrored shroud toward Rae. The resin teeth were spent. Rae did the only thing she had left: rhythm.
She tapped the floor—three in, five out—not to her breath this time, but to the glass. The corridor caught the tempo; the Hall's frame—click-click—answered like a Pelagor. The shroud slowed for a heartbeat—long enough to save a life. Sythri struck its corner with a hidden weaver's needle, twisting it to snare a foot. They fell, but the retinal corridor was no place for a long fight; it was a short place for taking.
"Left!" Sythri pulled Rae through a panel with a hidden door. They emerged into the reflection gallery: a narrow overlook with thick glass windows facing the Hall's core. From here, they saw the meeting shift into a storm-market: the Listener on the table, envoys raising hands, Lua fending off two guards, Brug holding three, Pelagor flooding the floor from small capillary tubes—turning the mirrors slick for overconfident steps.
"Rae!" Brug spotted her, relief widening his face—then tightening again. Above, a grate slid open, revealing a way down from the Silikae balcony. Two mirror figures dropped behind Rae and Sythri—this time from above. Silikae tapping turned frantic. Danger! Danger!
Sythri shoved Rae toward a small door beside the window. "Down to the knot-room, find the bone stair to the southern storerooms. Lua knows the way. I'll hold—"
"No," Rae resisted, staring at the Matron who'd saved her twice in sixty seconds. "I'm not leaving you."
"I am thread," Sythri said, mouth curving faintly. "You are knot. Thread knows how to break without unmaking the weave. Go."
The mirror figures swooped—second fine net falling from the grate. Rae gripped a small stick—not hers; Lua must have slipped it to her—and struck a rhythm on the window: tap-tap-tap—pause—tap. The Hall replied: fungus lamps flickering, reflections shifting, the net losing its angle. Sythri sliced it in two with a motion the mirrors refused to reflect, fearing the wrong eyes would learn it.
"Go!" Sythri pushed, this time angry—not at Rae, at the clock.
Rae dropped through the small door, descending the bone stair. The knot-corridor below sounded like a stone organ holding back a cough. The distant Pulse rose half a step, then held—no accident. Rae ran; fracture-shadows on the walls moved like cynical guides.
She was almost at the turn when something—cloth? air?—closed over her mouth from behind. Cold hands—glass or gloved—caught her shoulders. She twisted, kicked back, but the corridor was too narrow, her attacker too patient. The needle touched skin beneath her ear—a feather's weight, promising sleep.
Above, far away, the Hall burst into echoes: Brug's cursing, Lua's brief song to hold a wave, Sythri's small laugh like thread slicing arrogance. Silikae tapped fast: tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
Rae remembered Veyne: A needle is a prayer with a body. And Sythri: You're not cheap goods. And Irix: Breathe in rhythm first, then speak.
Three—in. Five—out.
On three, she rolled her shoulder, dropping her weight; on four, turned her neck—the needle scraped skin instead of piercing. On five, she bent her knees and dropped herself, pulling her attacker just off balance. The glass hand at her mouth loosened—just enough for Rae to bite. It tasted of metal and salt, like a bad promise.
"What are you doing there?" The voice—slick, too calm—came from the corridor's end. The central envoy stood in the doorway, mask reflecting Rae into all the shards she least wished to see. In his arm, the iris disk glowed faintly. On either side, two shadows stood like decisions. "Rae Althorne," he said gently, "the ceremony is waiting."
The grip behind her tightened again; the world narrowed to the fracture at her eye's corner. She looked up—stairs—down—shadow—sideways—mirrors that offered no help. Somewhere, the Pulse held, reminding her that even the world needed time to choose.
Rae lifted her head—too quick for someone caught, too slow for someone escaping—and in the blink before the needle touched her skin again, she struck the bone floor: tap-tap-tap—pause—tap—the Arachnean call for a knot.
Above, in Webspire's cables, something began to move.
The corridor narrowed, the Listener breathed, the mirrors reflected. And as the glass cloth closed over her mouth again, Rae counted three—in; five—out—diving into the only rhythm that had ever taken her side.
Darkness bent. The snare drew tight.
The chapter ended here: a heartbeat before the needle struck, the knot from above dropped—whether to save or to seal, the Hall had yet to decide.