The **Yard of Rims** spread like a disciplined heartbeat beneath Noonspire: five spar circles inlaid with pale sunstone, bell-bronze rails ringing each ring, and a ceiling of veiled skylight that turned every blade into a polite mirror. The **Bell Chancellor** and three drill-captains watched from a gallery of glass with quills poised like spears that grade.
Word had sprinted ahead of us, the way rumor always outruns scheduled learning.
"**OP twins**," someone breathed as we entered. "Over… *pealed*?" another offered, trying to keep it academic.
Aurelia snorted once; the inch of shield at my spine made the air decide to behave. "We'll be **order and peal**, then," she said, dry. "Not overpowered."
I touched **Lysithea** to the bronze rail and let the yard hear our breath.
```
┌──────────── PRE-PRACTICE STATUS ───────────┐
│ Eirion — HP: 13,170 / 13,180 MP: 410 / 21,100 │
│ Aegis Hymn: 26% Oathbond: Linked (92%) │
│ Buffs: Court Key, Quiet Law │
│ Aurelia — HP: 12,450 / 12,460 │
│ Constraints: Indoors → edge-casts only; route tone via bronze/glass/water │
└───────────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
## Bout I — The Halberd Lesson
Opponent: **Ser Hadrin** (senior paladin, halberd school). Objective: break his stance without breaking his pride.
"House before heroics," Aurelia murmured. I set a **Concord Peal** through the ring rail—tone carrying the clause *No striking in a house of speech; aid is alms.*
Ser Hadrin tested range with the neat reach of practice. **Anointed Silence (sim)** pinched the air—drill-captain's pouch bursting like a quiet apple.
I refused the room and cast into bronze. **Bellguard** kissed the halberd's beak—**Aegis +12%**—then I rode a **Quiet Tricant** under the rail's hum:
> **New Technique (Built):** **Quiet Tricant** — breath-syllables + **Peal Weave (bronze)**; threads **Smite + Mend + Thread** through rail hum while **Silence** is active (indoor-safe).
* **Smite** shaved the halberd's lower hook a hair wide,
* **Mend** slid into Aurelia's elbow where parry torque lives,
* **Thread** stitched a scuff on the floor so my next step belonged to me.
Aurelia **stepped in**, rim under haft, shoulder setting the hinge. "Now," she said.
I touched **Lysithea**'s flat to the rail—**Amen Break** split off three silent sub-lines that desynchronized his weapon's little cheats. Ser Hadrin's halberd learned humility. He yielded with a grin that respected itself.
"OP," someone whispered. "*Order & Peal,*" Ser Hadrin corrected, saluting.
## Bout II — Mirror Cohort (2v4)
Opponents: **Mirror Cohort** of four with reflector bosses, trained to punish healers' on-hits. Objective: dissolve the grid without shattering glass.
They formed a white rhombus, mirrors angling to **return** my tone to my teeth. Aurelia set her rim to the rail and I answered with a new chorus:
> **New Technique (Built):** **Rim Choir** — **Peal Weave** routed through paladin rim edges + ring rail; projects a *stun-soft* tone band that trips **timing** (not ears). First brace in the lane **hesitates** instead of hard-blocking.
The first shield paused a heartbeat; **Bellguard** found its hinge; **Aegis +18%** arrived warm. I layered **Suture Screen** as low gauze to catch a practice net, then **Counter-Signatured** a small circle between boots:
> **New Technique (Built):** **Twin Signature** — **Counter-Signature + Knight's Mandate**; converts the *next* hostile "style" into courtly form (cleans feints into straight lines), –10% enemy burst, safe indoors.
Their rhombus became a square—predictable. Aurelia walked the left flank into a wall that felt like an offer; I poured **White Mercy—partial** along the rail as **Reservoir Mercy** so our allies' missteps healed *as they learned*. **Reprise** birds pecked at over-eager wrists until enthusiasm remembered posture. The grid dissolved neatly; the gallery's quills made pleased scratches.
## Bout III — Silence & Smoke (Sim)
Drill pouches **stifled** the air; two students ran a **tar-veil** mimic (colored cloth, same visibility). Constraints doubled: **no bursts, no spray**.
We made **house** instead of heroics:
* **Civic Rhythm** through the rail set our feet to a **queue** beat; panic couldn't find syncopation.
* **Bell Sutures** laid micro-thread across the nearest glass; **Shiver** found nothing to eat.
* **Concord Peal** narrowed the ring clause to a ribbon: *Ask; don't assume; keep lanes clear.*
* Aurelia's **sheathed Mandate** pressed impropriety flat without ever leaving its scabbard.
When the veil dropped, nobody had bruises and the only thing out of breath was bad planning.
## Bout IV — Final Gauntlet (Exhibition)
Opponents: **Six** mixed schools led by **Feron the Blademath** (top of class; footwork like tidy arithmetic). Objective: finish **together** under full constraints.
Feron opened with **Shiver-Line** feints—tiny glass-bite sounds to bait overcorrection—smart, pretty, wrong for this house. Two pikers set a safe rush; a baton duo hunted my **on-hit** with mock levies.
We wrote the page clean.
I dropped a **Minute Replevin** caret into the rail: *Tone minutes are charity.* Their levy pouches coughed dust. **Bond Mirrors** on the gallery panes returned our **Oathbond** cadence to our knees—**+5% Harmony** while we stayed within sight. Aurelia rolled her rim and the **Rim Choir** sang a soft off-beat; Feron's math stumbled one fraction.
"Together," she said.
I traced two hair **Sunlines** that crossed at Feron's next step; Aurelia planted her verdict on the **clean** diagonal; my seam rode a finger's breadth aside. **Amen Break** pinged—silent, polite—off two shields; their timings **miscounted**; our edge-casts **finished** without a single ringing pane.
Feron blinked at the floor that hadn't moved and then grinned the way good students grin when the proof is beautiful. "Yield," he said, satisfied to have learned.
The yard—*politely*—lost its composure for one heartbeat.
```
┌──────────── POST-PRACTICE REPORT ───────────┐
│ Bouts: 4/4 PASS — no fractures; no injuries │
│ Techniques: Quiet Tricant, Rim Choir, Twin Signature (learned) │
│ HP — Eirion: 13,180 / 13,180 │
│ HP — Aurelia: 12,460 / 12,460 │
│ MP: 350 / 21,100 │
│ Aegis Hymn: 33% residual │
│ Oathbond Harmony (peak): 96% │
└─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
The **Bell Chancellor** closed their ledger with a sound like a satisfied law. "Legend is cheap," they said, eyes amused. "**Habits** are dear. Keep yours."
From the gallery: "OP!" a junior breathed again.
Ser Hadrin, passing, tapped his temple. "Order & Peal," he corrected. "They built **houses** and invited us to behave inside them."
We coiled lines and wiped the ring rail—a courtesy bronze always notices. Students came too-close, then remembered the **Etiquette Canticle** and stopped exactly one breath away to ask questions instead of handing us their awe like work we hadn't asked for.
A figure lingered in the shadow of a pillar that glass pretended didn't reflect. The fall of leaf-stitch gave her away. No crown. No scepter. A mother who had found five minutes between rulings.
No witnesses noticed when **two pastilles** (lemon & thyme) found their way into my palm, or when Aurelia's strap (one hole slack from the last bout) was wordlessly tightened by a hand that has always known where her weight belongs. The Empress's eyes were noon; her touch was morning.
"You beat **everyone** you sparred," she said in a tone that meant *good* and *danger* at once. "Do not learn the wrong lesson."
"We won by **houses**," Aurelia answered.
Her mouth softened the width of a thread. "Then I am at ease." Ruler-voice returned as she turned away: "Report to **Ceremonial Candor** at second bell. Bells do not lie for kings."
The quills resumed scratching. The yard remembered to be a yard, and rumor—greedy, breathless—went looking for a name catchy enough to survive the truth.
A student braver than his knees approached our line. "Is 'OP twins'… okay?" he asked, sheepish.
I smiled. "We prefer **Order & Peal**. But we answer to **Eirion** and **Aurelia**."
"Especially **Aurelia**," someone muttered, recalling the rim.
We left a small **Sunline bow** on the ring lip: *Ask; don't assume. Aid is alms. No striking in a house of speech.* The bronze liked the sentence and kept it.
On the walk out, I bumped Aurelia's shoulder lightly. "Still guarding my six?"
"In a hall where **legend** tries to outrun **habit**?" she said, dry as good bread. "Especially."
We crossed into the Mirror Corridor, our reflections returning our cadence—two figures, one lane—and the city practiced being quiet enough that **Order & Peal** could keep winning without ever needing to be loud.