Page 28 of Embers of Midnight
For the first time since the alley, my breathing evens out. It feels like treason. It feels like relief.
I don’t look at them when I murmur, quieter, “Thank you. For not… making this worse.”
“You’re welcome,” Darian returns, simple.
“We’ll still probably make it weird,” Ash adds. “But not worse.”
“Speak for yourself,” Caelum mutters.
Ronan doesn’t comment. He doesn’t have to. The coat is answer enough.
I sit there with the bowl warming my knees and the fire warming my shins and let the minutes stack up like small victories. The trees creak. Somewhere far off, water moves under ice. The wind tries the edges of the clearing and decides against it. My pulse steadies to a pace that doesn’t feel like a countdown.
When the urge to run finally loosens, it leaves something else behind. Not comfort. Not exactly. More like a direction my body already knows.
We’re not moving yet. We’re not packing. We’re not anything except here.
And for the first time in too damn long, here is enough to make me stay seated.
Red on Snow
Seraphina
By afternoon the sky feels lower, like the cold decided to sit on our shoulders and see who blinks first. The camp looks smaller in daylight—two tents, a rope between firs, the fire reduced to a steady bed of coals. I’m propped on a log with Ronan’s coat around me and a blanket over my legs. My muscles are still shaky, my mouth metallic from too much adrenaline and not enough sleep.
The guys move with practiced calm. Darian folds canvas into perfect thirds. Caelum checks a metal case of sigils and—what did he call them?—anchors. Ash flips a knife over his knuckles like gravity owes him rent. Ronan stands at the edge of the clearing, back to us, scanning the trees. He smells the air the way I sip tea: careful, decisive.
I’m thinking about my yes, rolling it around like a coin I might have to spend.
If this is a mistake, it’s at least a warm one.
The forest goes quiet in that way you notice only after it’s already happened.
Ronan’s chin lifts. “Visitors.”
Darian’s hand slides to the hilt of his sword. Caelum sets the metal case behind me and steps in front without making a point of it. Ash’s knife vanishes; his smile does, too.
Figures ease out of the treeline in a loose crescent, boots crushing crusted snow, rifles angled but not yet aimed. Ten of them—no, twelve—faces chapped and hungry, eyes wrong in a way I recognize from every closing shift in the diner: bored until the moment they’re not. Masks hang at some throats. Several carry launchers slung at their hips, a familiar wire weight where a net would live. Null gear. My stomach goes cold enough to make its own weather.
The man in front looks pleased with himself, which is my least favorite look on a human. “Afternoon.” His voice is loud enough to show off. “We’re here for the monster.”
My fingers close around the blanket until my knuckles ache. Ash rocks on his heels, like a breeze could still be fun. “Bad news. We’re fresh out of monsters. Plenty of assholes, though. Want one of those?”
Rifles lift a centimeter. The leader’s grin twitches. “You can walk away. Leave it by the fire. Whole thing can be… civilized.”
Ronan takes one step. The cold drops a degree just to keep up. “No.”
The man laughs. “You think you can stop us?”
Darian answers with quiet certainty. “Yes.”
The leader flicks two fingers. Safety clicks and charging hums. Someone shoulders a launcher. I taste metal and old fear. My throat tightens and then loosens, because I remember the alley and the heat and my blood on my own shirt and I’m done being something for men to collect.
Ash’s voice goes sugar-sweet. “Before we begin, housekeeping: last chance to try moral development.”
A beat. No takers.
Ash exhales. “Thought so.”
