The supply closet smelled sharply of floor polish and ferrous blood. Heat seeped from Lekhan’s shoulders where he blocked the wood frame, his breath dragging rough against the plaster. Daska leveled her chin against the dark, entirely unwilling to concede that her pulse skipped from anything beyond simple outrage at his impudence.
“The Dissonance?” Daska’s voice, a practiced tenor that still felt foreign on her tongue, carried a hint of languid dismissal. “Lekhan, my dear, you’re injured. Perhaps your esteemed vocal cords are not the only things rattling in that skull of yours. My Resonance is as pure as the crystalline Fane rivers.” She injected a touch of aristocratic disdain, a subtle jab at his commoner origins. Let him focus on *that*.
Lekhan shifted, his tunic seam scraping her shoulder as he grunted through flared nostrils. “Don’t play games, Dask. That shockwave you unleashed… it didn’t just stun. It *calmed* it. It bent its will. I’ve only ever felt that frequency from the noise-beasts when they infect an ally's ear. Explain it.” His voice was low, dangerous, a growl that vibrated through the small space. Despite the pain, his grip on her arm, though now relaxed, remained a possessive anchor.
Daska scoffed, forcing a casual shrug. “Nonsense. It was a new technique, a blending of harmonics. Something you wouldn’t understand, being so… *traditional*. Perhaps my superior vocal range simply discovered a more nuanced application of Sound-binding. Don’t be jealous because I’m innovating where you merely… *strut*.” The barb was sharp, designed to provoke, to deflect. She needed him off this line of inquiry, and quickly. The idea of her voice, her *soprano* magic, mirroring the Dissonance was an insult to her very being.
A tense silence stretched, broken only by Lekhan’s labored breaths. Daska could practically feel his furious contemplation. Then, a low chuckle rumbled from his chest, devoid of humor. “Nuanced application. Right.” He finally released her arm. “You’re a walking anomaly, Dask. First the tenor, now *this*. But don’t think for a moment I’ll let you endanger the group. If your ‘innovation’ is a threat, I’ll expose you myself.” He pushed off the door, stumbling slightly before regaining his balance. “Now, out. We have a show to finish, even if you did manage to steal the entire spotlight.”
He yanked open the door, letting in a blinding rectangle of light and the distant roar of the crowd. Daska squinted into the glare and stepped past him, smoothing her cuffs before the stadium spotters caught them in the hall.
***
Later that evening, Daska’s throat felt like a raw gouge. The hybrid Resonance attack had exacted a brutal toll, leaving her vocal cords inflamed and her voice a raspy whisper. Refusing to admit weakness to the academy’s medics, she decided on a clandestine raid. Maestro Zolok’s office, she’d noted, always had a jar of potent, magically infused lozenges on his desk.
The conservatory, usually bustling, was quiet at this late hour. Daska slipped through the shadowed corridors, her movements light and precise. The heavy oak door to Zolok’s office was, predictably, unlocked. The Maestro rarely bothered with physical latches. Pale light cut through the high lancet window, picking out parchment bundles, dried plum skins, and humming projector nodes across the mahogany desk.
Daska located the crystal jar of lozenges on his desk. Next to it lay a stack of data slates. Her gaze caught the glowing label across the topmost casing: *Project Nightingale: Subject F. Re-integration Protocol.* Subject F. Her own family initial sat glaring on the glass.
Daska snatched the slate, her knuckles whitening against the brass edging. The partition remained encrypted, but the summary log laid bare three distinct timestamps beside three entries: *Memory excision*, *Voluntary identity suppression*, and *Maestro's conditioning harmonics*. Her predecessor had not suffered an unfortunate accident. She had sliced away her own mind to flee Zolok's grip.
Zolok was crafting sleeper soldiers beneath the guise of pop choreography. Tucking the heavy glass square beneath her breastband, Daska grabbed three lozenges and slipped back into the shadows of the gallery.
***
The next afternoon, Lekhan cornered Daska near the outdoor resonator bells, his posture rigid and his grin stretched taut. “Dask. Brother. You’re coming with me tonight. The mezzanine parlor. We have an engagement. With… fans.”
Daska stared. “A… double date? Are you unwell? I have no interest in ‘fans,’ nor do I consort with commoners in their… natural habitat.”
Lekhan smacked her shoulder hard enough to rattle her collarbones. “Nonsense. Two of our highest-tier fan club benefactors. We must cultivate a proper, wholesome, virile image. Manly camaraderie. In the company of women. Standard protocol.” His gaze flickered across her collar, sweating under his own declaration.
“Your grasp of normality matches your pitch control on high B-flats,” Daska muttered, but allowed him to steer her toward the eastern terrace, wary of causing a scene while carrying stolen conservatory files.
The mezzanine parlor smelled of sweet wine and crushed mint. Two apprentices in tailored crimson satins already waited in the curved booth, their badges indicating top-tier donor privileges.
“Lekhan Voda! Your high register tore the hall apart today!” cried the girl with iridescent blue hair, whom Lekhan introduced as Mira with a hasty wave.
“Mira, this is my squadmate, Dask,” Lekhan said, his voice grating as he shoved Daska onto the cushioned bench beside him. He gestured stiffly to the second girl, whose dark braids were woven with silver thread. “And this is Sola. She follows our tactical scores.”
Sola set down her glass, studying Daska’s face with thoughtful poise. “An honor, Dask. Your upper harmonics during the skirmish were startling. Very rare phrasing.”
Daska inclined her head with practiced nobility. “Naturally. True art requires invention.” Lekhan made a strangled sound and flagged a passing attendant, demanding a carafe of luminescent spirits.
As the hour passed, Lekhan’s leg bounced in erratic rhythm against the table leg. Mira prattled endlessly about his promotional poster poses, while Sola turned her chair toward Daska, debating the acoustic physics of choral barriers. Daska found herself answering with sharp, elegant theories, quietly relishing an audience capable of following her logic.
Lekhan glared over his goblet rim, his knuckles white around the crystal stem as he tracked every nod Daska exchanged with Sola. He snatched the decanter mid-sentence, his wrist twitching so violently that three gills of indigo liqueur splashed directly across Sola’s embroidered bodice.
“Clumsy hand. Pitcher was greasy,” Lekhan barked without an ounce of shame, waving a linen cloth with theatrical carelessness. Sola rose with a quiet, icy grimace and departed toward the washrooms to salvage her silks.
Daska watched her go, then turned a cool gaze on Lekhan. “You did that deliberately.”
“Nonsense!” Lekhan bristled, though his cheeks were faintly flushed. “A mere accident. The lighting in here is dreadful. Besides, she was practically *swooning* over you. We’re bros, Dask! Bros don’t… steal each other’s dates.”
Daska merely raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “I assure you, I have no interest in your ‘dates,’ however ‘swooning’ they may be.” She pushed a stray strand of hair from her face, adjusting the scarf she wore to conceal her throat. The throbbing ache was a constant reminder of Zolok's manipulations and her past self's desperate flight.
Before Lekhan could justify his sabotage, footsteps clattered sharply against the parquetry. Two heralds wearing the Maestro's silver insignia flanked the booth entrance, their batons drawn and resting upright against their greaves.
“Dask Fane,” the senior guard declared over the quieted room. “Maestro Zolok summons you at once. By executive decree, your contract is severed from the quintet. You begin solo debut training tonight.”