Page 100 of Embers of Midnight
Later, when the kitchen is quiet and the house decides to be a house, Draven shows up at the back door. He knocks once and lets himself in because authority makes its own etiquette.
“Headmaster,” Ash says, harmless as a butter knife. He can do that. It’s terrifying.
Draven’s gaze lands on me and stays. He doesn’t smile. His voice has the kind of weight that makes students straighten without hating him for it. “You were measured today,” he says. “You measured back. That’s the work.”
“Thank you,” I answer, because I’m not allergic to every decent thing.
His attention flicks to Darian, to the thread, to the bracelet. He sees what he sees and says nothing. “Rest tomorrow,” he tells me. “Walk the ring. Know your ground.”
“Sunday,” I say.
“Sunday,” he echoes, and leaves with the door closing slow.
I lean against the counter and let my head tip back. The ceiling is just a ceiling. Good.
Ash hip-checks me until I groan and then hands me a cookie I didn’t earn. “You’re insufferable,” I tell him.
“You’re welcome,” he replies, bumps my hip again, then kisses the top of my head like he’s trying not to make a habit of it and failing.
Caelum takes my hand like it’s a sentence he likes reading. “Come on,” he says. “I’ll play you something you can breathe to.”
“Bedroom?” Ash asks, scandal hopeful.
“Living room,” Caelum says without looking at him. “Innocent company present.”
“Coward,” Ash mutters, pleased.
Darian catches my other hand for a second, presses his mouth to my knuckles like an old vow he updated, then lets go. “Two short,” he reminds.
“One long,” I answer, tired and lighter.
Ronan turns off the porch light and checks the back latch. He can’t help it. He’s the kind of man who fixes what he touches. I let that truth make me greedy.
We end up in the living room where the sofa knows our shapes. Caelum doesn’t make a concert. He builds a line of sound that sits in the air without trying to be impressive. My breath finds it and rides.
At some point I end up with my feet under Ronan’s thigh, Ash’s shoulder pressed to mine, Darian’s palm warm against my ankle,Caelum’s music a low thing that maps the room into something kinder.
I don’t think about Sunday like doom. I think about it like a place I will walk to with a blade that knows my hand and lungs that remember the count even when I’m scared.
Two short. One long. The exhale opens space behind my ribs I haven’t had since the alley.
When I finally stand, the room stays behind my eyes in the good way. I climb the stairs without rehearsing my entire life and stop at the window to look at the west yard. The stones aren’t ominous. They’re stones.
I text Taya and Laz: I passed without exploding. You owe me cake. Laz replies with sixteen cakes and a photo of a bat. I don’t ask.
I set Pyrelight on the dresser. My thumb finds the hilt like a habit. The blade sits there without glowing, without humming, without asking to be worshipped. It just is. Mine. Useful.
“You and me,” I tell it, because I’m ridiculous and alone. “Sunday.”
The bracelet is warm where the skin thins. The thread is light over the pulse. Both answers land the same way in my chest: stay.
I turn off the light and lie down. The day doesn’t replay itself with knives. It folds and sleeps.
Ready over lucky. And if luck shows up anyway, she can sit, eat, and keep her mouth shut.
Space Heater vs. Ice Queen
Seraphina
