“No, no, no,” Myrren blurted, shaking her head until her loose braids tapped her collarbones. “You have this backward. It was not a statement. It was a nap. I was tired. The exit ring sounded like an ideal place to catch quiet, because failures get dumped in the outer flats, right? Everyone knows the flats are barren and boring, which was precisely my objective.”
Rethian Vor paused, lifting an arched brow. His dark gaze pinned her in place. “Barren and boring. What an exquisite phrasing. The sublime ennui of the truly enlightened. You saw through the charade, didn’t you? You understood that true artistic freedom resides not in frantic posturing, but in utter detachment.” He strode to a sleek console glowing with Prism-Weaving traceries. “An admirable counterpoint to the demanding avenues of this metropolis. It takes immense fortitude to choose such quietude during the central trial of your career. A total rejection of the machinery built to ensnare the ambitious.”
He touched a glass node, and the outer partitions clarified, revealing the sprawling skyline. Below, the Conservatoire glittered like cut crystal, its broadcasts already splashing across towering sky-screens.
“No, I only wanted to sleep!” Myrren insisted, her hands gripping her tunic hem. “I wanted nothing to do with broadcasts, or syndicates, or serving as any kind of muse. I am thoroughly unmotivated. My deepest goal is finding a mattress that molds to my ribs so I can drift off for a decade.”
Rethian’s smile widened into a slow, appreciative curve. “To drift for a decade. The ultimate expression of sustained contemplation. You seek untroubled escapism, Myrren. A visionary ideal in an age of frantic spectacles. Your stillness is not an absence. It is an unblemished canvas waiting for inspiration. Your brilliance lies in your absolute refusal to act on cue. To exist, untainted, at the center of the gale.”
Myrren buried her face in her hands. This was worse than being deported. This was *attention*. And the man was completely, utterly unhinged.
***
Miles away, in a cramped district flat, the Kest family sat rigidly on their worn velvet sofa, eyes fixed on the projection console. The broadcast, usually reserved for the high-octane drama of the Apex Conservatoire’s live auditions, had switched to an emergency special report.
Syla Kest, wearing a borrowed silk tunic laced with spun glass, sat taut with anticipation. Her parents, Elarian and Veridia Kest, beamed, ready to witness Syla’s moment of triumph. After all, Syla had spent months recounting, in vivid detail, her ‘future knowledge’ of securing a top-tier placement.
The announcer leaned forward, her lacquered coiffure catching the glare. “Citizens, a revelation unfolds! The Conservatoire’s culling trial has concluded, yielding a prodigy unlike any we have witnessed!”
Syla preened, adjusting her hair. This was it. Her moment.
“While numerous candidates displayed fierce dedication,” the speaker announced, “one candidate defied expectation not through labor, but through absolute, radical stillness! This student has captivated the city’s most discerning arbiter!”
Elarian Kest clapped his hands together. “Our Syla, naturally! Such an innovative approach!”
“Indeed,” Veridia murmured, tears of pride welling. “Who else could it be? She always knew what was coming.”
The beam flared, resolving into a three-dimensional projection. It was not Syla. It was Myrren, curled up across the glowing arena floor, asleep with a stray braid lying over her cheek.
Syla dropped her tea cup onto the carpet. Elarian and Veridia froze, their practiced grins collapsing into slack confusion.
“Yes!” the speaker proclaimed. “I speak of Myrren Kest! The overlooked middle daughter has been hand-selected by Rethian Vor. She stands as the premier muse of the Vor Entertainment Conglomerate, claiming the highest draft rank on record!”
The apartment plunged into a stunned silence. Syla’s face, usually composed in an aura of serene superiority, twisted into something ugly and venomous. Her fingers knotted into the fabric of her skirt until the seams creaked. Her timeline, her carefully hoarded foreknowledge, lay useless.
“Myrren?” Syla finally hissed, the name a poisoned dart. “Myrren?! That… that lazy, good-for-nothing parasite! She can’t even tie her own shoes without supervision, and *she’s* a ‘muse’?! This is an outrage! A complete, utter fabrication! It was *my* moment! *I* was supposed to be the one chosen!”
Her parents looked at each other, a creeping horror dawning in their eyes. They had dismissed Myrren. Forgotten her. Pushed her aside for Syla’s imagined glory. The broadcast looped Myrren’s sleeping face across the room, exposing the scale of their blunder.
***
The upper suite was, Myrren had to admit, absurdly comfortable. The brass automata had trundled away down carpeted corridors, leaving her alone amid plump velvet settees and amber light. Rethian had departed after promising to arrange an oasis suited to her artistic quietude—which Myrren suspected simply meant more gilded nonsense she had never requested.
She nestled into a deep settee whose down padding molded cleanly against her shoulders. Drowsiness was settling in when a brass latch slammed shut at the chamber’s entrance.
Myrren squinted into the room. A silhouette blocked the corridor archway, a crisp academy tunic standing out against the golden molding. Kesia Lorn. The raven-haired rival from the staging floor, whose frantic pacing before the trial had made Myrren feel tired just watching.
Kesia strode across the parquet, heels clicking with precision. “You!” she hissed, pointing a gloved finger. “Myrren Kest! Do you comprehend what you did on that floor? I placed second. Second! After three years of drill and sweat, I was positioned for the top contract. And you… you snored!”
Myrren sighed, a long, weary sound. “I’m aware of the nap. And I really do apologize for the inconvenience it’s caused to your… whatever it is you were doing.” She shifted on the sofa, trying to find a more optimal napping position. “This couch is remarkable, though. The lower support is unreal, and the fabric warms itself. Feel this.” She patted the empty velvet next to her.
Kesia froze, her speech derailed. She stared at Myrren, then at the empty patch of gold weave. “Are you... mocking me?” she demanded, her voice losing its edge.
“Mocking?” Myrren asked, genuinely puzzled. “No. I’m just pointing out a superior napping surface. You look like you could use one. All that… ‘relentless training’ and ‘sacrificing everything’ sounds exhausting. Come on, try it. The heat is quite soothing. It’s like a warm hug for your entire being.”
Kesia looked between Myrren’s sleepy expression and the thick velvet. Her rigid posture sagged. Myrren’s complete indifference acted like a sponge soaking up every drop of hostility in the room.
Kesia stepped forward and lowered herself onto the corner of the settee as if suspecting spring-loaded needles. A low sigh slipped past her teeth as heat seeped through her wool trousers. The furrow between her eyebrows softened.
“It really is warm,” Kesia murmured. She sank back into the upholstery, exhaling an enormous breath as the tightness drained from her neck.
Myrren closed her eyes. “Told you. Ideal for doing nothing at all.”
Kesia closed her eyes for a moment, letting the comfort envelop her. When she opened them, the last vestiges of her anger had vanished, replaced by a fierce, almost desperate protectiveness. She looked at Myrren, then around the outrageously luxurious penthouse, then back at Myrren, who was now truly beginning to drift off.
“Myrren Kest,” Kesia said, her tone snapping into crisp discipline. “You are an enigma, and you have no concept of contract politics. You will get shredded out there.” She sat upright, shoulders squared with fresh resolve. “I am stepping in. I am your administrator. Your gatekeeper. Nobody is going to disturb your rest, starting with that mogul. He needs strict visiting hours.”
Myrren, with one eye half-open, offered a weak, sleepy smile. “Sure, Kesia. Just… try not to make too much noise. My brain needs its downtime.”
Kesia looked at the dozing girl, then out toward the city spires, then back at the velvet settee. Her competitive drive had pivoted into an obsession with shielding this sanctuary. Kesia Lorn, second-place finalist turned guardian, decided her primary task was obtaining heavy acoustic paneling for every door. She would defend this magnificent indolence at all costs.
Her focus sharpened as she looked toward the suite foyer. Rethian Vor would soon learn that reaching his new muse required clearing her manager first.