the space between

Weapons. Trained, tested, forged in steel and fire. Failure is an inevitability that ends in death. Pain should not be felt--it should be recognized, familiar, and inconsequential

Martyrs. In the form of servants and princes, of leaders and underdogs. If blood is necessary, the martyr will lift their hands and offer it all

Shields. Like tempering a sword, but only to bear and not to lash out. Wounds are medals--not symbols of pride, but symbols of worth. A pretty shield is useless; scars mean a job well done

Experiments. Raised on the cold comfort of a lab table. Restraints are only necessary when they're not in their right mind. Is it honorable, to be twisted beyond recognition? Or is it just a necessary evil?

Monsters. Cruelty, caution, and regarding one as a creature beyond reasonable thought is tempering in its own right. But if you keep a leash at the right length, perhaps the massecre won't reach you. One can hope.

Idols. Pretty face, pretty name, pretty hands around their shoulders and throat. There to seduce, manipulate, force any feeling to come to the surface and twist it to their favor. Any genuinity stays locked behind the guilded cage that surrounds their pretty little heart

Trophies. Status and wealth and the traditions that keep someone at their heels, on their knees, to display and serve and decorate one's ballroom.

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From Open Seas, after Swales was making fun of Dorian for not dancing with Tess all night despite every other pirate in the place asking her:

Dorian shook his head. “If you’re done, I’m here to prove you wrong.” “Oh?” Swales rested his chin in his palm. “Yes,” he said, shooting a withering glare at Swales. He shifted so he was facing her directly. “Do you have one more dance in you, Miss Bowen?” Tess blinked at him, then glanced at Swales as though he would somehow help her. She’d resolved that dancing with Dorian was a terrible idea for a multitude of reasons yet now she couldn’t name a single one. “Don’t look at me, girl. You walked in here wearing his hat, not mine,” he said, holding his hands up. She would have to ask someone about the hat thing later. Or maybe not—she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “I can manage one more dance,” she replied a few seconds too late. “For you.”

Oooooh they gonna dance.