The title's mine. Not theirs.
Next stop? The admissions office in the Sartrix.
Yes, there are processes—long, tedious, and glittered in bureaucracy. Clothos breeds order the way Iluyto breeds warmth. So naturally, the Sartrix, being the kingdom's most sacred weaving hall, runs on exact lines and exhausting amounts of paperwork.
I follow Phoibus through corridors that gleam with opulence.
The walls are trimmed in gold. The floors are white marble. The ceilings glitter with inlaid starlight.
Little Kaabaigs flit above our heads—scrolls in their arms so enormous they look like they're about to tip sideways mid-flight. They chatter in high-pitched hums, skimming documents and bumping into chandeliers. The entire place buzzes like an over-glorified hive of thread-obsessed bees.
Sunlight filters in through the glass roof, turning the already shimmering hallways into a glowing cathedral of gold.
Seriously.
What is it with this place and gold?
A little silver wouldn't kill them. A dash of copper? Something?
We round a bend and enter the heart of the Sartrix.
The Oraisayn stands in the center.
An hourglass—taller than Phoibus, made of enchanted glass and weeping marble.
The sand inside glows cerulean, drifting downward with an unnatural slowness.
They say when the Oraisayn runs out, the entire structure resets—
All threads will unspool.
All fate will be rewritten.
Comforting, right?
Phoibus stops beside it. The light catches in his eyes, sharp and soft all at once.
He turns to me, and with a voice far too calm, says:
"Now comes the trial of registry."
I blink. "...I just wove a perfect plain."
"Which proves your hands." He shrugs. "But not your intent."
Oh. Good. More hoops.
Behind the registrar's cubicle sat a Talus—better known as "The Ones Who Write."
Her expression balanced delicately between "Oh no, not more paperwork" and "Hello ma'am/sir, how may I ruin your life politely today?"
To be fair, if I were in her place, I'd wear the same expression.
Especially with the mountain of documents behind her, stacked so high they nearly obscured the intricate weaving patterns on the marble wall. It loomed over her like an avalanche waiting for a sigh too loud.
Reasonable.
She glanced up at Phoibus. Her expression changed immediately.
Not out of respect. No.
But because royalty means expedited forms.
"Third Prince," she said with an impeccable bow of the head.
Then her gaze slid to me—calculating, curious, unimpressed.
An Iluytri in the Sartrix?
She might as well have stamped 'anomaly' on my forehead.
Phoibus stepped forward, voice smooth as royal thread.
"This is Daphni of Iluyto. She's to be registered as my second-aide."
"Apprentice," he added, casually—like it didn't mean setting the building on fire in gossip.
The Talus didn't blink. Just pulled a scroll from her desk, dipped a quill into glowing ink, and muttered,
"Name. Birthmark of thread. Finger imprint. Any minor burns I should be aware of?"
Reasonable. Again.
I cleared my throat.
Y'know, just in case my vocal cords decided to betray me and croak like an Iluytri toad.
My reputation is already as low as the city's sewers—no need to add "sounds like a frog" to the list.
"Daphni."
"Uh-huh. Daughter of who?"
The Talus didn't even look up. Her quill scratched against the scroll with mechanical precision, her pink hair bouncing—more like flailing—with every stroke.
"Daughter of nobody, miss."
The scratching stopped.
Just for a beat.
A moment.
A silence that hung between ink and truth.
Then she resumed writing.
As if that answered everything.
As if it was enough.
"Okay," the Talus murmured.
Her voice had lost its clipped efficiency—softened, suddenly unsure.
"Any previous records here in the Sartrix?"
Oh no.
"Uh… yes."
And not a good one, either. But hey—let bygones be bygones! New gloves, new life, right?
Phoibus shifted behind me.
I didn't have to look to know he was doing that thing—
Tight smile. Relaxed stance. Dangerous intent.
"What she meant to say," he cut in smoothly, "was no."
Silence.
My head snapped toward him.
My eyes screamed: Sir. That is a Talus. A court-recorded, fate-transcribing, paper-hoarding Talus. And you are LYING?
He met my look. Blinked. Smiled wider.
As if to say:
Let them record what I allow.
The Talus finally raised her head, and I caught her name etched in delicate gold on her lapel:
'Laytana.'
She blinked once at Phoibus, unimpressed.
Then her perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose—sharp and judgmental.
Her green eyes narrowed, cutting through Phoibus like they were forged to do just that.
He, of course, smiled wider.
His eyes crinkled at the edges like he was holding back laughter—or a secret he'd never let go.
"Your Highness—" she began, all sharp professionalism.
"Laytana," he interrupted, smooth as a spool of silk.
"If you must, I can testify for Ms. Daphni's records."
Laytana turned to me.
And oh gods.
The look.
Brows furrowed. Nose wrinkled. Mouth set in that "ma'am I don't get paid enough for this" way.
Please don't look at me like that, I begged silently.
I was honest!
Laytana just sighed and scribbled something onto the scroll.
Reasonable.
Fallen Spinner or not, Phoibus was still a prince.
The future King of Clothos.
His word wasn't just law—it rewrote it.
She gestured toward me with a flick of her quill.
"Gloves off."
I hesitated.
Just for a moment.
Then I took a breath and slipped the periwinkle gloves from my fingers—
carefully. Precisely.
Warmth surged.
It started in my palms.
Then bloomed outward—fiery, radiant, untamed.
The air shimmered.
Laytana shrieked.
Actually shrieked.
Clutched her scroll like it could shield her from spontaneous combustion.
"By the Threads, what—"
"I'm an Iluytri," I said flatly, wriggling my fingers to shake off the glow. "This is kind of normal."
Laytana blinked.
Twice.
Phoibus, behind me, made a noise that I refused to interpret as laughter.
"Your Highness, are you sure it is wise—"
"I trust Ms. Daphni's capabilities," Phoibus said, cutting in without even looking at Laytana.
Poor Laytana.
Third interruption in under five minutes.
She took a deep, patient breath that sounded like it came from the bottom of her spine, and pushed a document across the marble desk.
"...Okay. Please stamp this document with your fingerprint, Ms."
The gold nectar shimmered in its little glass dish—thick, warm, and humming with soft magical resonance.
I pressed my thumb into it.
Tamped down the rising heat.
Held my breath.
Then stamped.
A perfect golden print.
Unburned. Just barely.
Laytana examined it, nodded, and pulled out another scroll.
"Birthmark of thread?"
I hesitated.
This part was always the worst.
Not because I didn't know it.
But because I did.
Phoibus stilled behind me.
I lifted my chin.
"Renovamen," I said quietly.
A hush fell between us.
The Kaabaigs above flitted slower.
The Oraisayn, I swear, ticked louder.
Laytana looked up at me. For the first time, really looked.
And in her eyes—no pity.
Only recognition.
"Ah. So you're that one."
Laytana muttered it just under her breath—enough for me to hear, enough for Phoibus to pretend he didn't.
She gave a low whistle and waved over a Kaabaig, who fluttered in with wide, panicked eyes.
The moment she passed the registration scroll, the poor thing nearly dropped out of the air—drowning in paperwork.
"Not my business," Laytana said, casually ignoring the Kaabaig spiraling like a lost napkin in a breeze.
"Congratulations on being the Third Prince's Apprentice."
Then, without a change in expression—without joy, excitement, or even basic alertness—she ducked under the desk…
…and pulled out a small brass hatch.
From it: confetti.
Of course.
Without a word, she tossed a handful into the air.
No smile. No enthusiasm.
Just solemn obligation and perfectly practiced grace.
The confetti fluttered downward like sad starlight.
Phoibus blinked.
I blinked.
"...Do you have to do that for everyone?" I asked cautiously.
"Protocol," Laytana said. Completely serious.
10/10. No notes.
Give this woman a raise. Or a nap. Maybe both.