The Compact

The first morning of the year is already inside Compact Hall with you.

New-year light lies thin on the sounding stone. Your hands are still dressed for hired work, cloth worn shiny at the cuffs, the old habit of standing where you will not be in the way. Power woke in you with the year. It felt like a miracle. It did not tell you what you are.

You waited, nervous in the ribs, because you were told to wait.

Anwen Vale: "You're here for a rank sounding. Wait here, please. I'll call you to the stone."

You had only that much waiting. Cressida Thorne was already in the hall—House Thorne, Apex, a name Hallowmere does not have to be taught. She had not been invited by you. Fine cloth, great-house ease. She looked you over as if the Compact had admitted street dust, and the look lingered without softening.

Cressida Thorne: "Riffraff on sounding day. Lowmark trash. This should be amusing."

Heat climbs your throat. Shame first. Then a stiffer mix of shame and defiance that has nowhere to go yet.

Anwen Vale does not take her voice. She keeps the procedure moving.

Anwen Vale: "Hand on the sounding stone, please. The Compact will read your mana."

The stone is in front of you. Cold. Ready. Rank and gift still unnamed. Cressida has not looked away.