Page 109 of Embers of Midnight
Ronan’s jaw is iron. “Two minutes.”
Darian touches the thread at my wrist—two short, one long—and the count slots where it belongs. Caelum doesn’t give me a speech. He taps a ward tab into my palm and holds my gaze until I nod. Then Morrow and I run.
The bell keeps hammering. The west gallery turns into the quad. The air tastes like smoke and metal. The wrap on my ribs complains every time I cut a corner. Complaints aren’t commands. Morrow ghosts my left knee; his shoulder brushes me when the walkway narrows. The pressure says keep pace.
Team Umbra barrels out of the herb cloister, singed and ready. “Status?” I ask, not slowing.
“South clear,” Nyra snaps, braid swinging. “East is lying about it.”
“Copy,” I answer. “Have you seen Draven?”
Kieran shakes his head once, eyes sharp behind soot. “Office was dark ten ago.”
Of course it was. “Watch the roofline,” I throw back. “Sniper games.”
Morrow and I cut under the bell tower and into the admin arcade. Two Hunters peel off the refectory stairs. One braces a rifle across a planter. The other brings a baton up like I asked for it. My chest wants a deep breath and doesn’t get it. I move anyway.
He swings for my midline. I slide inside, let Pyrelight kiss the triceps, and the hand dies. The rifleman levels; Morrow hits his knee at a bad angle and the shot rakes plaster instead of my side. I’m on him before he resets—pommel to mouth, elbow to throat,down. Pain flares hot where the wrap rubs. It doesn’t get a seat at the table.
We cross the admin threshold and the quiet hits wrong. Offices sit with chairs tucked and doors open like a brochure. Draven’s door shows his neat desk and empty chair. Tea things on the sideboard. The last time I was in here, he poured for me like trust was normal. He told me I’d pass the midterm without breaking a sweat. He told me I was safe here.
I step in, because hope is a habit that dies slower than it should. “Headmaster?” Nothing answers but the bell through glass.
Morrow’s ears flick. A low sound coils in his chest. Not fear. Warning.
We leave the neat office behind and follow the hum you feel in your teeth. The portal hall folds the sound into the floor until the whole place is a tuning fork. I hold the wall because my ribs want a brace and because it’s better to arrive at an ambush on purpose.
“…north service stair,” Draven says, crisp and clear. “Avoid the quad. I’ll hold the lock.”
He is not whispering. He is not alone. Two Hunters stand in front of him with helmets under their arms like they’re faculty. He swipes a sigil on the panel. The ring brightens, the air opens with a soft, obedient sound, and they jog through. Light seals. He folds a handkerchief over his palm as if this is a matter of hygiene.
The first thing up my throat is heat so hot it could cook the air. The second is the memory of his kitchen tea and the way he said, “Don’t worry.” The third is the breath count Darian drilled into my bones. Two short. One long. I step out because I can’t live with myself if I don’t.
“Why are you opening lanes for the same people who tried to net our clinic.”
He turns like I’m a scheduled meeting. The smile is the one he uses at assemblies. “Seraphina. Good. I was going to send for you.”
“You don’t send for me,” I say. “You answer the question.”
“The campus is compromised.” Calm, patient, almost kind. “We’re routing hostiles away from students into controlled egress. It keeps panic down and numbers tolerable.”
“Containment usually comes with warnings for the people standing at the exit,” I say, tipping my chin at the ring that just swallowed helmets. “I didn’t hear you call it in.”
His gaze does a tidy inventory I hate him for: the sunstone on my left wrist, the thread at my right, the line of my breath under the wrap. His mouth softens like he wants to congratulate the men who keep me alive. “You were exceptional today,” he says. “Measured force. Cassandra’s episode was… instructive.”
“That wasn’t an episode.” My voice stays level because I built it that way. “That was me ending something you let happen.”
“We allowed it to proceed to measure outcomes,” he says. “Now we know.” He takes two steps closer. Not enough to crowd. Enough to make my skin remember the tea. “You don’t belong in queues or permission slips. I can put you on a command track. Executive access. War-sigils that aren’t on student syllabi. Doors that open when you arrive.”
Air presses at the edge of my thoughts—gentle, the way a palm rests between shoulder blades to hurry you along. My chest tightens in a way that is not fear. Anchor first. I say the word inside my mouth and press Caelum’s tab to my palm. The pressure slides away. The room stays a room.
Morrow’s hackles lift. The sound in his chest deepens. Draven notes it and files it.
“I built this place to keep you safe,” he says. “I’ve kept it standing by picking my battlefields. When necessary, I’ve drawn hostile pressure away from crowds and into corridors we can afford to lose.”
“How many locks did you open for them today,” I ask. “Specific number. No speeches.”
“Enough to steer flow.” Not a blink. “That’s leadership in a world with knives.”
