CHAPTER 25: ACCORDS IN THE RING

The ward looked different when the exercise wasn’t about cuts and points but promises. Blue light held steady instead of thrumming for blood. Benches filled slower, whispers pitched lower, like the room knew shouting at oaths made them brittle.

Proctor Pierce said just enough to nail the rules to the air. "Applied Arcanum Practicum. Control, Accords, and Release. No written work. If you cannot bind safely, you cannot bind. Saintess Anselm evaluates ethics and stability. Referees enforce consent and containment. Argue with either, argue outside my hall."

Liora stepped to the chalk circle with two assistants and a lacquered case. White-gold bands tapped softly on her wrist when she opened the lid. Wisps coiled inside—candle-flames with a pulse. Beside that: a neat bundle of cleaned beast bones. She didn’t smile; she didn’t scowl. Standards stood there in white and blue.

We queued by pairs. A noble boy hurried his words at a wisp and earned a gentle, humiliating unwind when his "promise" sounded like a loophole. A commoner girl, hands shaking, bound clean and released cleaner; Liora’s chin dipped and the girl walked away taller.

My turn. I stepped into the circle with palms open, shoulders down. There is a world where I cut throats for a living. This was not it.

"Mr. Valcrey," Liora said, steady as a metronome. "Demonstrate a basic Accord with release clause. Then, if containment permits, a simple construct and storage. No embellishment."

"I understand," I said.

A wisp drifted free, hovering like a curious bird. The arena leaned forward. The Compass in my head went politely quiet.

Breath on four. Words are tools; pick the kind that do the job without begging the room to clap. "I ask for your help," I told the wisp. "I will not bind you to harm those who’ve done no harm. If my intent breaks that, you leave. When the work is finished, I let you go whether it flatters me or not."

The wisp brightened and dimmed like listening. I lifted my left hand, palm out. "If you agree, stay. If you do not, go."

It stayed, soft and weightless against my palm. The Accord thread tugged—a gentle tether—and settled. No heat. No show. A good rope on a good ring.

"Clause?" Liora prompted.

"If I fall, you’re free," I said. "If I order harm to innocents, you’re free. If any Saint commands release, you’re free."

The wisp flared once, hard enough to pale my knuckles. Liora’s blue eyes ticked up a hair. Mark on slate. "Bound. Terms clear. Show me the release."

"Thank you for the help," I said, and meant it. "Go." I opened my hand and cut the thread with the small will-knife you sharpen by keeping your word clean. The wisp drifted and rejoined its brothers without sulking.

"Construct," she said.

I knelt by the bone bundle. Marrow and Hollow waited in Shade under the stands; I didn’t call them. New exercise, new creature. Small ribs, two toe bones, a hinge. Simple bird—nothing clever. I tied on exhale, sipping External only when leather cinched. Placement, not volume. Fingers stayed living; lines didn’t fuzz. Hook, loop, line. Heart-mark.

"Wake," I said softly. "Hollow two."

The little bone-bird stood itself, then settled on my finger joint, light as a thought. Two commands: scout to the chalk and back. It did both without a rattle. "Shade," I said; it folded into my boot’s shadow and vanished like a sketch erased with a damp cloth.

A murmur went down the benches. Not awe. Respect trying the room.

"Storage and recall," Liora said.

"Out." Bone clicked; the bird appeared. "Shade." Gone. The leash in my chest hummed under speech. Smooth. Tidy.

"Last," she said, voice a shade softer. "Break your own toy. Release."

Hollow two perched on my knuckle. I felt the thread between us—no chain, a line—and cut it clean. "Thank you," I said. "Rest."

The bones softened back into ordinary. I set them on the cloth.

"Your ethics?" she asked.

"Promises I can keep," I said. "No commands that rely on me being perfect. If I call wrong, the leash shouldn’t punish a thing that trusted me."

For a breath the hall didn’t exist. Her chin dipped, almost nothing. "Pass. Stable. Terms acceptable. Storage clean. Release exemplary."

Behind Aldric a laugh caught like a fishbone. He let out a single, too-loud chuckle. "He practiced saying please," he told the air, still sore from the ward post marking him earlier. "How charming."

I didn’t turn. The crowd did. More than one noble stared at his freshly trimmed fringe. A boy in Voss blue swallowed a grin too late.

Liora closed the case. "Next."

I left to a different sound than I’d entered—less bray, more weight. Near the back rail, Lyra stood with two commoner girls pressed to her shoulders, answering questions while trying not to get penned in by the bodies that always found her. When she saw me, she didn’t wave or try a joke. She mouthed, Good, like a verdict, kept her notebook between us like a shield, and looked aside first as if reminding herself there were eyes everywhere. Her cheeks colored a little—youth, surprise at public competence from a Valcrey, and the awkwardness of being watched while she did her job. Not swooning. Not even close. Guarded.

I kept distance. One nod. No angle to give gossips the rope they wanted.

Ariadne watched from a pillar’s shadow. She didn’t move. The smallest muscle in her jaw did. I counted it as progress because I needed things to count.

The practicum ran on. Some bindings were ugly—pride makes clumsy knots—but the rules held. One boy tried to mint a servitor without consent; the referee snapped chalk across his wrist and Liora made him unlearn his mistake in front of everyone. Seraphine entered the circle like a queen crossing tile, bound a wisp with perfect diction and a flawless smile. Her terms were technically beautiful and morally narrow; the bench adored the song anyway. Liora passed her with a neutral "stable; terms narrow." Seraphine’s mouth thinned for an instant before the mask settled.

Cael went last because the universe enjoys symbols. "Help me keep people breathing," he told the wisp. It stayed. He released with a word that sounded like gratitude without performance. Clean as a blade you trust.

Pierce dismissed us with, "Don’t thank me. You did it to yourselves." The ward dimmed.

Outside, air tasted better for a while. Boys still laughed about small things. Girls still argued over clever ones. I watched how people moved around Lyra—still crowding, still needful—but with more care not to swallow her whole. She kept her notebook like a knife and a shield both, careful with space, wary with me as much as everyone else. Fair.

Gareth found me near the yard with dust on his sleeve and a fresh chip out of his thumbnail. "Saw you not make a mess," he said. Praise in his dialect. "Group Tactics after lunch?"

"Plan on it," I said. "Bring water. Don’t give Aldric clean ground."

Gareth grinned, all freckles and bad ideas. "We’ll give him a puddle."

Lyra crossed ten paces away, half a dozen voices tugging at her. She hesitated, as if weighing a step toward me, then thought better of it and kept going. She glanced once over her shoulder—a measuring look, not an invitation—and color touched the tops of her ears before she fixed her face and faced her people again. Young. Inexperienced with the weight of attention. Wary, and with reason. I didn’t chase the look; I had earned nothing yet.

Group Tactics would tempt me to show off. I planned to make it simple instead and let simple win.