Page 32 of Embers of Midnight
“Quick map,” Darian offers as we climb. He’s behind me but not crowding. “Down here: portal room, war room, armory, a compact training hall. First floor: kitchen, living, study nook. Second: bedrooms.” A beat. “We’ll walk you through, not lecture. Ask anything you want.”
“Working list,” I mutter. “Starting with ‘what the hell.’”
“We’ll tackle that one,” Caelum promises, amused.
The stairs open into light.
The kitchen owns the right-hand side of the ground floor. Counters in dark wood. A six-burner range that murmurs faintly, runes centered in a dial I decide not to touch. A long table that could seat eight and does not apologize for the scars in its surface. Knives line up on a wall magnet like well-behaved soldiers. The air smells like garlic and the kind of heat that collects in the best corners of diners. Through a wide doorway, a lounge waits — low couches, shelves with books, a throw blanket that looks like a trap for the weak.
My feet pull me to the window before my head catches up.
Outside is trees. Not my trees. The ground falls away in a slow green slide to a valley crowded with evergreens, their tips flicking under a wind we can’t hear. Past that, another ridge cuts the sky. The line is too clean, like it was scissored. The sky itself is a wrong I didn’t know how to imagine. Constellations in the right number, wrong places. A tight cluster burns where Orion should be. The moon is shaved thin and lying on its back like it lost an argument. Low to the east, a faint silver sheet hangs, moving the way breath moves — not an aurora I’ve seen, more a quiet cousin.
“Where even is this?” The question comes out flatter than I mean it to.
Caelum joins me at the glass, shoulder a polite distance from mine. “Not Alaska. The Academy sits in a parallel fold — another layer next to your world. This house is on that fold.” He glances at me, checks for panic. Finds confusion, mostly. “There are others.”
“Time?” If everything’s about to get complicated, I want to know whether I missed Christmas.
“Near one-to-one,” Darian answers, stepping where he can see through the same glass. “No dilation. Food tastes normal.”
Ash leans his hip against the counter, stage-whispering, “Tourism brochure: safer sky, worse Wi-Fi.”
“Hunters?” I’m looking at the doorway like they might be there anyway. Old habits.
“Earthside,” Caelum says. “Gates require keys. They don’t have ours.”
Ronan hasn’t said anything. He doesn’t need to. He stands between me and the stairwell, not blocking, just angled, a structure in case I want a wall.
Something tight in my chest loses one notch. I hate that it helps. I also don’t.
Caelum tips his head toward a short hall. “Bathroom is that way. Second door. I’ll put clothes on the handle.”
“I will set you on fire if anyone knocks while I’m naked,” I inform the room, very calm.
Ash brightens. “Threat noted and cherished.”
The guest bath is bright and painfully honest. Big mirror. Bigger shower. A shelf lined with clean bottles, labels facing out like they’re interviewing for a position. The tile is warm under my bare feet. I peel off Ronan’s coat, then the borrowed layers, and catch my reflection mid-movement.
I stop so fast my shoulder clips the doorframe. My eyes are not brown. They’re red-gold, hot at the rim, brighter when I blink like someone slid a tiny sunrise under my skin.
“Absolutely not,” leaves my mouth on a breath that isn’t steady.
I step closer. My pulse hammers at my throat hard enough to count. I hook a finger under my lower lid like that’s going to fix color, like melanin is a sticker I can peel off if I’m gentle. The gold holds. It doesn’t even flicker when I swear at it.
My hand goes to my stomach before my brain agrees. I press the place the knife went in. Flat skin. No ridge, no pull, no tenderness. My knees try to go; the counter keeps me upright; the edge bites my thighs. Air starts coming in wrong—too fast, too shallow, like I’m drinking through a cracked straw.
“Okay. Okay, no.” I brace both palms on stone. The surface is cool and real; I push until my arms shake and keep pushing. The room pinwheels once. I drop to a crouch on the tile and tuck my head down. In for four. Hold for four. Out for six. Do it again. And again. My heartbeat backs away from the cliff by grudging inches.
A dry heave hits from nowhere. Nothing comes up. My mouth tastes metallic anyway. I rinse, splash cold water over my face until it steals the heat under my skin. It helps and it doesn’t.
Back up. Look again. Same stranger. Same eyes that don’t belong to the waitress who clocks doubles and pretends she’s fine. I could cry. I don’t. I clamp my teeth on that impulse and it passes like a truck.
“Great,” I tell the mirror, voice rough. “My eyes upgraded without asking. Return policy? I would like to speak to a manager.”
The joke lands thin but it lands. I roll my shoulders until they remember I own them. The cut that isn’t there still throbs in memory. I press harder just to prove I can’t make pain appear by wanting it.
New plan: shower, clothes, food, answers. Not necessarily in that order, but definitely with scalding water between me and panic.
