The dress today was bright crimson, stitched with absurd little golden frogs.
Torik blinked at Maribel as she swept into the room, skirts rustling like a sail catching wind. Her hat was new too. Wide-brimmed, flaring like an umbrella, with a cluster of dyed feathers that bobbed with every step.
"You're serious," he said flatly.
"Utterly," she replied. "Today, I'm Lady Venshire of Bramblecourt. A widow, beautiful and wealthy. I detest mornings, tolerate liars, and adore vengeance."
She curtsied with perfect poise. The pendant at her throat sparkled with the same subtle shimmer he'd come to recognize in her Veilbinding.
Torik folded his arms. "What happened to Miss Maribel?"
"She's resting. Performing is exhausting."
Kell had warned him this would be strange, but he hadn't expected lessons to feel like theatre. The training hall, more like a repurposed salon, had become his new home. Bed in the corner. Mirror on the wall. No windows. Plenty of space to pace. And no locks, which he found unsettling.
"You want me to... wear costumes and flashy hat?" he asked.
"No. I want you to wear a life. The hat helps though."
Maribel tossed him a coat that was long, stiff-collared, and two sizes too big. She motioned for him to put it on. He did, begrudgingly.
"Persona is the first veil," she said. "It begins before the magic. Before the shimmer. Before the twist. You play a role, and you must play it perfectly, not to convince them, but to convince yourself. That's the secret."
Torik raised an eyebrow. "So, you're saying... lying to yourself is a magic technique?"
Maribel smiled. "It's works wonders for lords and ladies."
He snorted.
"You're a thief," she continued, circling him like a hawk. "You're good at it. You've used Veilbinding your whole life without knowing. But instinct only takes you so far."
He shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, well, I got by."
"Did you?" She stopped in front of him. "Tell me, you said you stole a ring off a man's hand before, explain."
He stiffened. "...It was a job."
"Indulge me." As she crossed her arms.
Torik sighed, hands slipping into the coat pockets. "He was at a banquet. I got myself on the serving staff. Waited till he was drunk enough to try flirting with someone else's wife. He waved his hands around a lot when he lied which made the ring easier to mark. Got close. Tied his scarf for him and made it disappear while he was trying to remember her name."
Maribel's smile widened. "You used distraction, proximity, and perception. You made him think he was the one in control."
Torik shrugged. "It's not magic. It's just knowing people."
"Exactly," she said, voice sharp with approval. "And Veilbinding is just knowing people. It's just doing it through the mind instead of the room."
Maribel held out a mirror, then yanked it away before he could look.
"Your first exercise is simple. You are no longer Torik. You are Calwin, a courier from the eastern coast. You carry messages. You speak quickly, you apologize often, and you always, always keep your eyes down."
He hesitated. "Why?"
"Because Calwin is afraid of nobles, and he grew up with social anxiety."
She snapped her fingers. "Begin."
It was harder than he expected. Playing scared felt unnatural, even when he remembered jobs where he'd faked just that. Maribel stopped him every minute to adjust his posture, his tone, the way he walked.
"You move like you're still carrying a knife."
"Your eyes are too sharp. Blur them."
"No courier speaks in full sentences, gods save us."
By the end of the hour, sweat was on his brow, and he was more exhausted than after a rooftop chase.
"You expect me to do this and use Veilbinding on top of it?"
Maribel nodded. "Yes. Because eventually, the lie becomes invisible. The magic doesn't hide you. You hide you. The Veil just helps you hold it longer."
Later, as they rested over tea that Maribel insisted on, Torik finally asked, "What is the Veil, really?"
Maribel's expression turned faintly distant.
"It's the thin space between what's real and what's believed. We don't change the world. We shift how the world is understood. Every person builds a little narrative in their mind of what's happening, what's likely, who's dangerous. All we do is lean into that momentum and redirect it. Like nudging a river."
Torik frowned. "But it's not an illusion?"
"No, not with our capabilities," she said firmly. "It's suggestion. Mental sleight of hand. And the tighter you control the story people tell themselves when they see you, the less they question it."
He looked down at the coat. "So Calwin is part of that?"
"He's your practice. Someday, you'll make a persona so convincing it will walk you through the doors of gods."
Torik tried again. This time, he found the posture more easily. The stammer came smoother. The accent… well, it was garbage, but Maribel smiled anyway.
"Better," she said. "Tomorrow, we build him a history."
He blinked. "A fake one?"
She winked. "No, darling. By tomorrow, it will be true."