Page 37 of Embers of Midnight
“Noted.”
We don’t talk itinerary. We just… eat. It feels like we’re pretending this is normal and also not pretending at all. My hands stop shaking around my mug. My pulse stops trying to set a sprint record. The new eyes in my skull catch more light than they should; nobody flinches at the red-gold. They flick there, sure, but not like it’s a problem to solve. More like the way you look at lightning and go huh, okay.
“After,” Darian says, closing the folder, “a few forms. Caelum will explain the anchor. We’ll keep today small.”
“Small is my love language,” I tell him dryly, and mean it.
Ronan takes my empty plate like it offended him and turns to the sink. Ash steals my last corner of toast with full eye contact and gets a quiet kick in the shin from Caelum that he absolutely deserved. Darian puts the pencil parallel to the folder’s edge and yes, I notice that too. Patterns. Habits. The way they orbit each other without thinking, like gravity learned their names.
I drain the mug. The world doesn’t tilt. Points for Friday.
“Ready?” Ash asks, too bright.
“No,” I say. “Let’s go.”
The Academy doesn’t broadcast. It breathes.
The main building’s entrance hall is all stone and hush and measured air. Not a cathedral—no drama. More like a courthouse that decided it could be kind. Runes in the floor seam if you’re looking for them; I wasn’t, and now I can’t unsee. Light comes from panels recessed into the ceiling like clean weather. Doors line the hall with brass plates that have names, not titles. Feet pass in muffled pairs. Voices stick to low ranges. It smells faintly like paper and lemon oil and cold iron.
Ash takes a half-step ahead like a tour guide who’s done the spiel and decided to do it better. He doesn’t speak. He just keeps pace, eyes dancing over people, exits, little details that could be nothing or could be things.
We stop at a door with a plate that reads Draven Athanox.The handle is old brass, worn smooth. Darian knocks once, knuckles even, not loud. A pause, then a voice that could slice bread without breaking it: “Come in.”
Draven looks exactly like his projection and more dangerous in daylight. The gray at his temples is a choice, not a concession. His desk is a slab of old wood and quiet authority. There’s a window, high and narrow, letting in a slice of that wrong-right sky. A single plant on a shelf is thriving like it’s afraid to disappoint him.
He stands. He doesn’t offer a hand or remain seated to test anyone. He watches us like we weigh something, not like we owe him anything. His eyes flick over Ash, Ronan, Caelum, Darian, landing on me last. Not polite—deliberate.
“Good morning,” he says.
My mouth goes dry again because my body loves a theme. “Morning.”
He gestures to the chairs. We sit; the seat under me is solid, not designed to trap confessions. Ronan takes the one on my left, Ash sprawls in a way people practice, Caelum folds neatly, Darian anchors the edge like he’s keeping watch because that’s how his spine works.
Draven folds his hands on the desk. “I understand you arrived late and under pressure.” He glances at Darian. “Briefly.”
Darian gives him the one-minute cut and Draven listens without looking bored. When Darian ends, the Headmaster’s gaze returns to me and stays put. “May I have your name?”
The question lands like a weight I can actually lift. I straighten. “Seraphina Grace,” I say, then add because it feels less like a target, “Sera.”
“Sera.” He tries it once, not sloppy. No flinch at the eyes. No weird pity face. “You’re welcome here.”
My shoulders let go half a centimeter. I feel it like a tiny drop in pressure.
“We don’t know what you are yet,” he continues, voice still even. “We know what you’ve survived. We’ll proceed accordingly. Today: minimal paperwork. A temporary ID anchor so the wards recognize you. Next week, baseline evaluations. You choose the pace. You’re housed with this team for now, if that is what you want.”
Four sets of attention rest on me without pushing. My chest goes tight; I breathe through it.
“I want that,” I say. The words are steady enough.
“Good.” The smallest nod. He writes something with a fountain pen that looks like it could kill a man in the right hands. “You’ll see things you haven’t seen,” he says, almost conversational. “When you don’t understand, ask. If someone can’t answer, they’ll find someone who can. If anyone pushes you, you send them to me.”
Ash opens his mouth. Draven lifts an eyebrow one millimeter. Ash closes his mouth like a chastened Labrador. I blink a laugh down where it belongs.
Draven slides a slim box across the desk to Caelum. “Anchor. Escort her to Enrollment after this.” To me: “You don’t owe usexplanations today. Eat. Walk. Notice. Tell these four when you need space.” A pause. A softer thing passing through the steel. “You did well yesterday. You’re here.”
The praise hits a nerve I didn’t know was raw. I hold my spine like I’m not a sucker for decent adults.
“Any questions,” he adds, dry, “that aren’t the existential ones?”
