A bell pealed once in the blackout. Candleflame stitched in from the doors, slow as a loading bar. Seraphine stood exactly where she had been, unmoved by fear; the stillness of someone trained to win by letting others break first.
SYSTEM CUT-IN Quarantine: 10… 9… 8…Safe Options Remaining: 1.Hint: Etiquette is a blade.
Zion didn't see the Administrator in the dark, but It saw him: a tall outline where air had more weight, a silhouette that made reality crease. He remembered the pebble he'd thrown. He would either be crushed by the train or learn to run along its roof.
"Lady Seraphine," he said, pitching his voice to the crowd, "if a room is quarantined, who holds the key?"
She answered the way tacticians do by choosing the battlefield. Her gloved hand lifted, palm outward. "Who dares lock my ballroom?"
"A caretaker," Zion replied, moving into her orbit as if that had always been the choreography. "But a hostess decides the party."
The countdown hit 3. E.V.A.'s cursor pulsed near his eyelashes like a shiver.
MICRO-PREMONITION: move left.
He moved left.
A spear of blue light hissed down where he had been standing. The parquet smoked. Guests screamed. The Administrator stepped into being like an icicle given legs Regent Maelor's Stability Protocol in ceremonial armor, featureless helm reflecting everything and nothing.
"Return to script," Maelor intoned, voice frostbitten. "Or the shard pays."
Seraphine took one measured step off the dais, skirts whispering. "A host," she said, "doesn't threaten the guests."
Zion felt it then: beauty as weapon, awe with an edge. She was lethal cold given etiquette.
CHOICE NODE: DUEL BY WIT
[A] Yield to authority.
[B] Stage a public lesson.
He chose [B] with a breath.
Zion bowed to Seraphine and offered his arm. It was the smallest defiance. She accepted, blade-smile barely there. Together, they began to walk directly through the Administrator's projection, which flickered when touched by the logic of courtesy.
Murmurs surged.
RESULT: Etiquette Parry audience alignment shifting.Collapse -3%. DP +10. Affection (Seraphine): +6 (interest).
E.V.A. whispered: Your move created a safe corridor. Keep to it.
They paced the red carpet while the Regent's quarantine field hissed against the lace logic of a dance that refused to stop.
Maelor's helm tilted. "You will comply."
"Serve wine, then," Seraphine said coolly. "Or leave the floor."
Rails spasmed. A violinist, shaking, raised her bow and played the note Zion remembered from the tilt the silver thread that had stitched his arrival. The room's gravity eased.
The Administrator made a cutting gesture.
SYSTEM:Manual Save/Load charges: 2.Warning: Admin interference may force a save burn.
Zion's skin prickled. The cursor hovered, patient, like a scalpel waiting for consent.
"Identify," it repeated, but softer now, as if learning him.
"Zion," he said. "Guest."
"Anomaly," Maelor corrected.
"Host," Seraphine said, and for a heartbeat he wore that word like armor.
Cliffhanger: The chandelier reignited revealing a second set of footsteps printed as ash on the parquet, leading away from Zion toward the palace's sealed west wing.