Page 55 of Embers of Midnight
The room clicks with pens and quiet breaths. I don’t realize my jaw is clenched until it aches.
The professor shifts to history. Early records show human cults hunting monsters with iron and superstition. Then came a convergence event on Prime—earthquakes, lights in the sky, doors opening where doors weren’t. Magic bled into the cracks. People were born different. Fear grew teeth. The Hunters formed to fight things that didn’t fit. They never outgrew that mission. They just updated their marketing.
Professor Rell doesn’t preach. He doesn’t need to. He gives dates, names, the number of bodies when a “purge” went wrong.
“Ethics,” he says at the end, a hard word in his mouth. “We talk in this class like every life has weight. That does not change when the person in front of you was born with fire in their lungs.”
Someone in the back mutters, “Tell that to them.”
He hears it and answers without looking up. “That is why you are here. To outthink, outlast, and outlove the narrative they sell.”
My throat goes tight, so I swallow and write that last sentence down even though it sounds like something a poster would say. It feels less corny with her voice behind it. My hand cramps. I keep writing anyway.
When the class ends, the hall fills with the sound of people standing, bags unzipping, the scrape of chairs. I sit for an extra second to catch my breath.
Ash is leaning outside the door like he knew when I’d breathe again. He slings an arm over my shoulders, easy, warm. “On a scale from brunch to funeral?”
“Somewhere near ‘courtroom documentary that won awards.’”
“Hot,” he says, and steers me toward the dining hall like he’s shepherding an overcaffeinated cat.
“I thought tea is at eleven,” I say, even though my feet already know where they’re going.
“It is,” he says. “But we’re walking through the good hallway so you can pretend to be calm.”
Somewhere between the arch and the second column, Darian appears like a well-timed wall. “You’re early,” he says. It’s not a correction; it’s information.
“I’ll be fine,” I say to my shoes.
“You will,” he says, and falls into step on my right. Ash peels off only when the Admin hallway makes it awkward.
Draven’s office smells like paper warmed by sun and something like leather, not new, the kind that has been polished a hundred times. The room is orderly without being cold. Bookshelves line the walls, not for show; the spines are worn. There’s a single plant in a wide pot, leaves glossy, soil damp. The window is cracked open.
Draven stands when I enter, which feels unnecessary and makes my palms sweat. He doesn’t make me sit in the middle chair like a child trying to negotiate. He pours tea correctly without asking how I take it, which is rude and mostly feels like being seen.
“How’s your Friday,” he asks, even, like we’re two people with time.
“Educational,” I say. My palms are warm against the cup. “Rell gave a TED Talk about why I should never trust anyone with a badge and a PR team.”
“Appropriate,” Draven answers. He watches my face without chewing on it. “You’ve been here a week. You’ve adapted.”
“I keep not dying,” I joke. “It’s a talent.”
His mouth lifts. “I’m glad.” He watches me for a second, not like a hawk, more like a craftsman checking the grain before he cuts. “I wanted to say this personally, not through a note: I’ve reviewed your evaluation from Tactical Magic & Strategy. You see patterns quickly. You adapt quickly. That is not common, even here.”
Heat rises under my skin that has nothing to do with my magic. I stare at my cup. “Thank you.”
“Did you train before?” He keeps the question light. He gives me space to lie. I don’t want to.
“No.” I swallow. “Not like this. I grew up in a group home. I worked at a diner. I learned how to move fast and not spill things and get yelled at less. That’s the only training I’ve ever had.”
He nods. He doesn’t pity me. The lack of pity feels like grace. “The body learns what it has to,” he says. “You learned to read rooms because rooms could be dangerous if you missed the cue. Strategy is the same skill in a different coat.” His fingers tap once against his knee and still. “If you’re willing, I’d like to sponsoradditional sessions for you. Not more pressure. More support. Small group, focused drills. You have an instinct. I can help you build a framework around it so you don’t hurt yourself proving you can endure.”
My chest goes tight for a good reason this time. No one has ever said anything like that to me. No one has looked at me and thought more, not less.
“Yes,” I say, too fast. I clear my throat. “I mean, I’d like that. A lot.”
“Good.” His smile reaches his eyes now. “We will pace it. Your other classes matter, and so does sleep.” He takes a sip of his tea. “How are you settling with your… team?”
