Page 96 of Embers of Midnight
“It is,” I answer. “It was that or keep letting her hunt me in the halls one pinch at a time. I don’t have time for a slow bleed.”
He studies my face like a craftsman laying a level across a beam. “You’ll be careful.”
“I’ll be competent,” I say, because careful can be a trap if you hold it wrong.
His mouth moves just enough to count as a smile. “That too.” A pause. “And midterms?”
“I’ll be boring and good,” I tell him. “Rell gets cake.”
He snorts, a small sound. “He likes lemon. I don’t want to know how you know that.” He sobers. “Two things: document anything in the lead up. And do not let anyone sell this as spectacle. When people come to watch you on Sunday, they should know they came to watch neat work, not revenge.”
“Message received.”
He taps two fingers lightly against the edge of my notebook as if blessing the paper. “I’ll be there.”
I nod. The knot under my ribs loosens by a hair. The bell for Combat thunks through the wall; the student tide shifts. Draven melts back into the corridor like he never existed. Neat trick.
The arena tastes like resin and old sweat. Ronan has a staff in his hands and that steady patience that keeps rooms from sharpening into weapons. Gossip hangs in the bleachers like static before a storm.
He drops the staff into its rack with a soft click, puts both hands flat on the table, and looks at the class long enough that the noise dies on its own.
“Housekeeping,” he says. “Some of you are here to move your bodies better than yesterday. Some of you are here to watch. If you’re here for a show, you can go. If you’re here for work, we begin with holds and resets. Anyone who swings through a halt will practice with a broom handle.” He pauses. “Anyone who brings their mouth to a fight will also practice with a broom handle. You have three minutes to decide how much dignity you’d like to keep.”
We work. The floor does what it always does: strips pretense and makes muscle tell the truth. I keep my stance honest, my hands quiet, my breath boring. Maela ends up across from me once and we exchange exactly what the drill requires. No more. When the halt comes, we break clean. Somewhere on the bleachers, a thread of frost tests the air and dies against Caelum’s mapping ward; I don’t look up. Ronan clocks it without letting it turn his face.
At the end he pulls us in. “Notes,” he says. “Sera, you’re cleaner at the stop. Keep that. Elbows lower by an inch when you initiate. Maela, your after-beat faded. Keep it dead. And for the four of you whispering about Sunday—” he angles his head at thebleachers “—if you want rules, read a book. My class is not your rumor mill.”
A few people flinch and then get over themselves. We break. The day exhales. I wipe my wrists, feel sunstone and thread under the towel, and think about rope and the line I’m willing to draw.
Study with Darian takes over the dining table after dinner. He builds me a map like a spine: events as vertebrae, laws as nerves. Each time I can’t make a date stick, he ties it to a person instead.
“Who passed the Null-Weave Act?” he asks.
“Councilor Hadrin.” I drum my fingers. “Three years after the Silvergate incident. The one with the collapsed transit line.”
“What made it pass that year?”
“Public panic.” I grimace. “A child got caught in a small tear; the press ran it for months. Hunters rode the wave and everyone else caved.”
He nods, satisfied. “Now you’ll remember the date because you’ll remember the scandal.”
“You’re good at weaponizing my pettiness.”
“It’s a gift.”
Ash wanders through twice to drop snacks and bad jokes, then kisses the top of my head and leaves us to our shared nerd rage. Caelum tunes a low line in the next room that takes the corners off my brain without turning it to mush. Ronan disappears and reappears with tea and a hard look at the clock when I would’ve pushed another hour. We stop on time. I hate it and sleep better because of it.
Before lights out, we walk the west yard to see the old stones where duels happen. The place doesn’t buzz with magic; it sits. The ring is three paces wider than a combat circle, scratched with old marks, a shallow step down from the path like a basin.
Darian keeps his voice even. “Witnesses stand outside this line. First to land a telling blow or to make the other concede. Down is down for five beats; if you can’t stand by then, it’s over. No signals. No refs. You set your own pace.”
“Any bans?” I ask.
“Poisons are coward shit,” Ronan says. “No null nets. No fatal strikes by intent. The stones keep score even if the crowd forgets.”
“And the crowd?”
Ash looks toward the dark like he can already see faces. “They’ll want blood. We’ll bring you water.”
