The lesson ended with tea, as always. Maribel insisted.
Torik sat down, coat draped over the back of the chair, sweat still drying on the back of his neck. Across from him, Maribel lounged against a velvet-cushioned chair, cup held daintily in one hand and a smirk in the other.
"You're improving," she said, voice light but distant. "Calwin almost seems like a person now."
"I'll send him a birthday gift," Torik muttered, running a hand through his damp hair. "Maybe a pen. He seems like a collector of pens."
Maribel chuckled. "He is a fancy ink pen guy, isn't he?"
A quiet moment passed. The air was cooler here than in the rest of the keep which was a blessing considering how hard she'd worked him this morning. Persona training was its own kind of battle. It left bruises in the places he usually kept guarded.
"You know," he said, setting his teacup down, "you haven't tried to break me. Not once. Even when I lower my guard."
Maribel's brow arched above the rim of her cup. "Break?"
"Veilbinding," he said. "My perception, get through. Force me to see something even if I try to see through it."
"Well," she replied. "You know to look for it. You can't bend someone who's watching the thread. That's how the art works."
He frowned. "That's not true."
She blinked.
"I used it on a Bound knight," Torik said. "Back in my cell. He knew I was Veilbinding him. He still swung at air."
Maribel's posture shifted. Subtle, but there.
"No, you didn't," she said carefully. "That shouldn't be possible."
Torik stared at her. "Want me to prove it?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Try."
He didn't hesitate. He focused.
He'd never done it intentionally before. But the feeling was there, like slipping a finger beneath cloth, like prying up a loose board. His breathing slowed. He reached out, not with his hands, but with the part of his mind that tilted things. That nudged attention. That whispered, look away, look wrong, look not at all.
And then he changed.
Maribel gasped.
To her, he towered. His shoulders stretched impossibly wide, his eyes darkened. The air around him shimmered like heat rising from stone. She flinched back, dropping her teacup. Porcelain shattered against the floor.
Her voice rose, sharp. "Stop!"
Torik blinked, dropping the tether. The illusion snapped. She was panting. Eyes wide. Hands trembling.
She walked to him and placed her hands on his face.
"Your output," she said quietly. "It's…"
She didn't speak for a moment. Just stared at him like he was something she couldn't categorize. A question wrapped in skin.
Then she whispered, "You powered through me."
"You said that shouldn't be possible."
She pulled her hand back and sat down slowly, still watching him.
"You didn't just nudge a thread," she said. "You tore through a braid."
Torik scratched the back of his neck. "I just… pushed harder."
Her laugh was soft, disbelieving. "You don't even realize what you have accomplished."
The door opened.
Kell stepped in, glancing from one to the other. "How'd training go?"
Maribel blinked, then straightened with a jolt. Her mask dropped back into place like a curtain. Smile returning, posture resetting, voice suddenly higher.
"Tremendously," she said, smoothing her dress. A faint blush lingered on her cheeks. "Our little thief may be more than he seems."
Torik watched her carefully. That was a mask. He was sure of it now. And for the first time, he wondered what kind of person hid behind it.
Kell glanced between them. "I'd ask what I walked in on, but I suspect I wouldn't understand it anyway."
He turned to Maribel. "Are you sure you don't want to join the operation?"
She stood, brushing invisible dust from her sleeves. "I wasn't made for blades-in-the-dark, dear Kell. I'm for whispers in ballrooms and secrets in wine."
"A shame."
She nodded to both of them, then stepped toward the door. But before she left, Torik called after her.
"What's your name? Really?"
She paused.
Looked back.
A long silence followed. Something passed over her face, a debate, brief but real.
Then: "Maribel. It is Maribel."
And she was gone.
Kell stared at the door like she'd just exploded into doves. "She doesn't tell anyone her name. Not even me. Not in twenty years."
Torik stared too. "Why now?"
Kell shook his head. "That's a question for you."
They moved quickly after that. Down a narrow hall. Through a hidden door behind an old tapestry. Into a stone chamber lit by crystalline lamps. A war room, but lean with no maps and no banners, just purpose.
Kell clasped his hands behind his back.
"Here's what is going on," he said. "The crown's gone, technically there are officials on the case. But this was stolen under Ysara's watch so I plan on going after it too. Issue is we're nearly out of time."
Torik tensed. "Out of time?"
Kell nodded. "The Cult of the Unbound. That jewel was the only thing keeping the worst of Tharoghul from breaking through. And now that it's in the hands of lunatics who want the titan to return... well, it's unravelling."
He dropped a thin stack of papers on the table.
"Reports. Monsters rising in places we haven't seen activity in centuries. Structures twisting, collapsing. People going mad. All since the jewel cracked."
"How long do we have?"
Kell's voice was grim. "Weeks, maybe. Probably less."
Torik breathed out slowly.
"Which means," Kell said, looking at him, "we stop waiting. I'm taking charge of the recovery. No more diplomacy. No more whispers. We're getting that crown back."
He motioned toward the door.
"Come on. Let's go meet the others."