Page 106 of Embers of Midnight
“I was waiting for a day without fires and exams,” I admit. “And for my sense to stop hiding behind everyone else’s needs.”
“Dumb sense,” she says, then tips her chin. The next step is mine to take or waste.
I lean in until she can meet me without effort. She does. Our mouths find a shape that makes more sense than anything I teach. It is not long. It is not the point. Warm. Steady. When I would chase it, I stop. Pull back. Breathe. She looks at me like restraint is a gift.
“You can ask for more,” she says, low.
“I will,” I tell her. “When you are not held together by tape.”
“Bossy,” she answers.
“Accurate.” I lace our fingers at the rail. The angle is dumb and perfect.
We talk instead. Not about Cassandra. Not about the bowl. She says the ring of fire felt like pulling a blanket tight and then letting it go. She says the punch felt better than it should have. I confess I wanted to carry her out of the quarry like a fool and had to lock my knees. She calls that sweet and does not make me pay for it with a joke. We let quiet take a shift. It does good work.
She eases closer until her head finds my shoulder like it trained for the route. My hand rests where her braid starts. Her breath evens. If I die today, let it be as a man who finally understood how to hold a thing without trying to fix it.
Luck rarely knows my name. Today it looks at me twice.
The first bell begins as a low tone I feel in my teeth. The second shakes the window. The third nails the frame. The Academy does not pull that rope for drills.
Sera is upright before the fourth, too fast for her ribs. Pain makes her hiss. She gets a hand on the rail and looks at me like I might tell her to lie down.
“I need you to stay,” I try, because duty says I have to say it once. “Let me check it. Let Ronan check it. You just fought.”
She shakes her head. The braid slides against my knuckles. “I can walk and hold a blade. I’m not letting you go alone.”
There is no world in which I pin her to this bed and keep her trust. Plans must match reality or they are theater.
“Then we do it my way,” I tell her. “Slow, center low. If I say down, you go to ground. If Caelum says breathe, you answer. If Ronan says stop, you stop. If Ash yells move, you move first and argue later.”
“Deal,” she says, already swinging her legs over the side.
I help with boots without calling it help. She squeezes my shoulder once when I straighten. We do not touch the blade at the foot of the bed yet. We will in the hall. The fifth bell hammers the roof. Outside, the courtyard shifts like a flock.
I press my palm to the inside of her wrist for a heartbeat. Two quick. One long. Her pulse answers on time.
“Ready,” I say.
“Ready,” she echoes, and kisses me once, clean as a seal on a plan.
The sixth bell lands. We move toward the door and the reason the Academy decided to shout.
Hold the Line
Seraphina
The bell is still going when we step out of the infirmary. Bare floor under boots. Light too white. The wrap on my ribs bites when I torque left; that is information, not a veto. Darian takes the inside line, shoulder close, palm ready at my spine if I misstep. He taps the thread at my wrist—two short, one long—and my breath falls into place.
Stairs. A landing. Hunters waiting like they practiced this. One levels a net canister. Two brings a shock-baton up in the same rhythm.
I fake high, drop under the first swing, and let Pyrelight glide the length of a hamstring. Weight leaves a leg and the baton hits tile. The second drives for my ribs. Darian’s Aegis snaps over us; the current skates and I am already turning. Pommel into the notch of a throat, knee through cartilage on the way past. The canister coughs. Darian angles the shield and the mesh hits hot, shrieks,and sags against the rail. The echo hasn’t finished when we clear the landing.
West gallery, then the quad. The bell drags the air tight. We run the covered walk with statues on our right and open courtyard on our left. Two Hunters peel off the refectory stairs, one bracing a rifle across a planter. Darian stretches the Aegis narrow across our lane; the first shot spatters into glass-dust. I cut inside a baton arm, take triceps, and leave the hand useless. The wrap protests when I pivot. I keep moving.
We take the bell tower’s shade, then the herb cloister. Vex whistles once above us—east roofline, motion—and I file it. At the admin arch a two-man team tries to pin the corridor. Darian brushes three fast strokes across the floor mosaic; their next volley staggers and drops short. I slide low, knock a muzzle aside, hook a shin, and leave him on the tile.
Past the fountain. Past the library steps. Students scatter toward dorms. A voice cuts once—“Inside”—and even the brave ones listen. We take the garden path behind the old observatory, gravel sliding underfoot, hedges high enough to break sightlines. My breath stays with the count. The ache under my wrap is loud; it does not get a vote.
