Page 38 of Embers of Midnight
“Is coffee a protected right?” I ask.
A corner of his mouth moves. “Yes.”
“Then I’m good.”
We stand. He doesn’t try to make the moment a ceremony. He doesn’t expect tears or gratitude or a speech. We file out, and he returns to his work like people surviving is part of his job and not a story he’ll sell later.
In the hall, my breath comes easier. Caelum taps the slim box against his palm. “One stop, then we let you look at things.”
“I’ve been looking at things since I woke up,” I say. “But fine. Show me whatever that is.”
Enrollment sits in an office that smells like toner and tea and relief. A woman with hair in a perfect knot and nails that could file runes without chipping greets us without asking who we are. She slides forms across a counter. Caelum ghosts me through the parts that matter—name, temporary address (their house),emergency contact (the house again, because don’t even start), and a blank where species would go. It stays blank. The woman doesn’t blink.
She opens the slim box like she’s unwrapping chocolate. Inside: a thin disc of metal with a tiny hole punched in one edge and runes so fine they look like a shadow. She lays it on my palm. It hums, low and friendly, like it’s saying hi in a language made of magnets.
“ID anchor,” Caelum says, voice low. “Worn on a chain for now; later it’ll embed once the wards know you. Touch it to the threshold of any warded door to announce yourself until the house memorizes you.”
“No beep?”
He taps the counter’s edge with a knuckle. A rune blinks, then fades. “It will answer you. Not loud.”
Darian gestures to a small circular plate set into the side of the door. “Try it.”
I press the disc to the plate. A soft pulse threads up my fingers like warm carbonated water. The rune brightens, then settles. The office relaxes. My shoulders do, too.
“That’s it?” I ask.
“That’s it.” The woman smiles in a way that isn’t performative. “Welcome.”
We step back into the hall. Ash leans close enough for his shoulder to brush mine and not long enough to be a problem. “You good?”
“Define good.” I tuck the chain under my shirt. The disc sits against skin like a small moon. “Yeah.”
“Small loop,” Ronan says. “No crowds.”
I appreciate that down to my bones.
We don’t do a tour. We move through spaces like we’re actually going somewhere.
The Library’s doors are black and quiet. Inside, light falls in sheets. Stacks rise in clean lines, not labyrinthine, but definite enough to get lost if you’re not paying attention. A sign in brushed brass reads Restricted with no drama underneath. My palms itch to touch spines I can’t yet read. Darian’s gaze goes there and away like he’s already building a map of how to get me approved later if I want it.
“Later,” Caelum says, like he heard me think it.
“Uh-huh.”
We cut across a courtyard where wards hum low enough to tickle the inside of my teeth. The training hall is a long rectangle of glass and steel with floor lines that mean something to someone. Inside: bodies moving in ways that look like poems when you know the language. The air inside is thicker, warmer, edged. Awoman with hair in tight braids calls a halt, and the whole room obeys by degrees.
Ronan stands beside me, hands hooked in his pockets. “Safety,” he says, a single sentence. “You bleed in there, you call. No heroics. That’s my job.”
My laugh surprises me. “Noted.”
We don’t go in. He doesn’t push. We keep walking.
Past the hall, a path curves toward glass domes that glow faintly with their own weather. The greenhouse throws a scent across the path that makes my shoulders drop. Earth. Chlorophyll. Something sharp and clean and almost citrus. A figure moves inside, silhouette blurred by condensation. Someone laughs—low, friendly. My chest does that weird ache that means longing and danger and maybe something like hope if you squint.
Ash bumps my elbow with his, light. “We’ll come back,” he says. “When you want to breathe in green.”
“Assuming the plants don’t judge me.”
