Gideon waves casually toward Sephiroth’s reflections. Clearly, he at least likes his own cleavage. It’s not the point because he’s right. These titles, official or tongue in cheek, aren’t working. Just as their names aren’t working.

They aren’t meaningless, but it’s information people can have without really knowing anything about her. Silas Octakiseron knew her last name because he spoke to a spirit. He didn’t understand anything about the Ninth. Not really. Much less her.

Gideon needs to channel Harrow. Harrowhark Nonagesimus. Gideon cannot unravel the magic or understand it’s underlying theorem. Nor does she want to. Harrow, she knows, would be so frustrated with her, with Gideon standing here the fool embarrassing the Ninth House. “Griddle,” Gideon grumbles in Harrow’s voice.

That name is theirs. When Gideon is embarrassing or too stubborn or stupid or impressive or working together. It’s always Griddle.

The reflections waver and snap together, a myriad of images in one. One person. Her. The mirrors start to part, letting them closer to the exit. Not out but halfway. Maybe.

“Your turn,” Gideon says. “You still going to punch your way out?”