Page 107 of Embers of Midnight
The House rises from the trees with wards humming low and porch lamps steady. Darian taps the threshold rune; it answers. I shoulder the last door and the house meets us with a mix I can use—garlic, steel, the clean we live by.
The porch holds our line. Ronan stands at center with the axe. Caelum takes the left with Somnus—his rapier—low and precise.Ash is exactly where rules say he should not be. Vex perches on the gutter, head cocked. Morrow lies as a black wolf tattoo along Ash’s forearm. Silks coils pale at his wrist, patient as a promise.
“Anchor,” Caelum says without looking.
I pull Pyrelight. Grip and balance are mine. Heat along the spine sits steady, caged. “With me,” I tell the stubborn part of my body that wants to sprint without eyes. It listens.
The first wave comes across the lawn—helmets, matte plates, rifles bought with someone’s paranoia. I give them small, ugly work. A cut through a wrist tendon. A line across a knee. One stamp to collapse a stance. One shove into brick so teeth meet stone. A bolt skims my hoodie. Darian draws me half a step into shadow and the next three rounds die against his ward with a soft hiss. He taps the thread again—two short, one long—and the tremor in my fingers leaves.
Ronan does not posture. He moves. The axe opens a collarbone and follows through to gut. The sound is wet and final and he is already turning to the next target. There is no satisfaction on his face; there is intent.
“Balcony,” Ash calls, chin flick toward the library. The shot pings cold. Darian throws a flat plane; rounds spider into glitter and fall. I raise a thin sheet of heat to bend the next volley. The bullets curve into hedge and die.
Two first-years freeze behind a planter. Caelum drops hush over us; our noise flattens and the panic in their breath dulls. I sprint.My ribs object but I do it anyway. I haul both by the collars, shove them toward the blue ward line. “Inside,” I tell them, and the look on my face convinces them not to argue.
“Null-caster,” Darian says, chin tilt.
Tripod. Wide mouth. A low hum that eats wards.
“I’ll take the crew,” Ash answers, and the space beside the caster team folds wrong. Morrow surges out of ink into fur and hits the loader’s calf; tendon parts under his teeth. Silks pours off Ash’s wrist and wraps a trigger forearm; one quick bite and the hand fails. I take the angle Darian calls. Pyrelight shears the tether ring. The cone coughs and dies. The smell is hot plastic and wrong. I wipe the blade and move.
Hounds come next. Four in null-collars, lean and fast, jaws like bolt cutters. They come in low. Ronan bars two throats with the axe haft, lifts and twists; whatever noise they had dies inside them. Ash whistles a note I feel in my teeth. Morrow launches and takes a throat clean. Silks finds a jaw hinge and tightens until something pops. Their handler tries to scoop me in an underhook like size will solve problems. I drop my center and put Pyrelight through the inside line of his thigh. The femoral opens. He sits down and is finished arguing.
The wrap pulls when a pivot gets greedy. I shorten my steps and keep the blade simple. The count holds. Pain does not get a stage.
“East arch, ten,” Ash calls over his shoulder, blood bright on his mouth, eyes too pleased for anyone’s comfort but mine.
“Understood,” Darian says, and I feel him pick the shape of our next line. We fall to the bell tower base without giving an inch we mean to keep.
Hunters flood the marble. The fountain has slicked the steps. My boot skates a finger’s breadth. I plant anyway. A man lunges. I parry high. The jolt rolls through my forearm. He is strong but not stronger. I hook his ankle, drive with my shoulder, and his teeth meet stone. He will remember soup.
A grenade arcs. “Down,” Darian snaps. Caelum throws a curved ward that eats most of it. The leftover shock punches my breath out. Copper washes my tongue. Oxygen is not panic. In. Out. Grip. Pivot. Cut.
“Left blind,” Ronan says.
“I have it,” Ash answers. He vanishes along the parapet and a moment later a body caroms off stone and drops. A second slams the wall. A third tosses his rifle and runs. Vex paces him overhead and offers a remark in loud bird, which I appreciate more than I should.
The main gate’s shield thickens. The pulse inside it is wrong and regular. Whoever is running this isn’t standing on the grass.
A juggernaut stomps out of the arch in an exo-frame braced with cold-iron anchors, a riot shield lifted like a door. It moves like a truck pretending to be a man.
“Hold line,” Ronan says, and goes to meet it. His axe bites the frame and throws sparks. He has fought rigs like this before. He gets inside the first swing and chops at a pin; metal shrieks but holds. I slide low and feed heat into Pyrelight until the pin softens. Darian stamps a sigil into the stone that forces stress into that weakness. The next hit fractures the metal. The frame stumbles. Ash slides a shadow under its feet and pulls. It drops. Ronan’s boot hits the visor. I push the blade through the gap the fall made. The smell that comes up is iron and hot oil. We move on.
A scream rips the clinic wing. We cut that way. The window is blown. Glass grit sits under my soles. The corridor is tight. No arcs. No flares. Pressure points and short edges.
The first hunter loses the tendon behind his knee and folds. The second drives a cold-iron spike for my side and catches wrap. Pain flares white and stupid. I will not give it a room. Two short. One long. The exhale takes the panic with it. Pyrelight answers with a slice along his forearm. My elbow meets his jaw and he sleeps. Caelum kills the corridor light and throws an anti-illusion bubble. Half their decoys evaporate and two men who thought they were clever discover they are simply in a hall with us. We take them apart without speeches. Taya appears with blood up to her wrists and a med kit, slaps a patch under my bandage without commentary, and goes back to clamping a stranger’s artery. Laz peeks around a door and drops a micro-banshee burst that staggers a hunter into my path. “Sorry,” hesays on reflex. “Good timing,” I tell him, and carve the rest of the way out.
Back on the lawn, muzzle flash winks from admin windows. Darian’s barrier takes three, then three more. A hairline crack slips and seals. Caelum points. “False on your nine,” he says. “Real at the shadow edge of the third window.”
“On it,” Ash answers. Morrow slips back into ink under his skin and the shadow holds him tighter. He ghosts up the wall and disappears through a frame. The window coughs glass, then boots. The thump is persuasive. I save my applause.
A wedge tries to force the steps four deep with shields. Ronan anchors the center. I take the right seam and paint a quick red line along a rib edge, shallow and mean enough to end the argument. His partner goes into the fountain with help from my hip. Water, blood, swearing, then silence. Someone grabs my hood. My elbow answers his face, and the crack tells me he won’t be breathing clearly for a while. He lets go.
“Net,” Darian snaps.
The thrower coughs. I catch the glint a beat late. Vex drops from the parapet like he subpoenaed gravity and body-checks the web midair, rides it into the hedge, and vanishes in leaves and profanity I wish I spoke. The net catches a handful of my hair. I slice it before it decides to become a relationship. “Hero,” I tell the hedge. The bird swears again. We are fine.
“Second net,” Ash barks. Ronan shoulder-checks me aside and takes the mesh across his ribs. The sound he makes is low and not for anyone but us. Ash is there in a blink, tearing the web away with a snarl he saves for strangers. The man on the launcher tries to reload and does not finish the motion.
