Page 70 of Embers of Midnight
“Good,” Ronan says. “We won’t escalate today. We train. We eat. We sleep. We let their paperwork find their neck.”
I nod because my chest loosened three degrees the moment he said we and I don’t want to talk about that in public. The ward tab on my notebook hums under my thumb like a second pulse. Taya covers my hand with hers for one brief squeeze and steals a tomato from my plate with the other, because friendship is theft.
Alchemy and Runecraft smells like citrus and clean metal. The assignment barely needs explaining: set plates in the dampener dip, avoid bubbles, hang to dry without letting anyone’s impatience turn the surface into a mess. Taya handles measurements. Laz plays lookout and photographer because rules obey him when he has evidence. I hover with my hands up and my breath count steady.
Cassandra drifts through the lab like a scent you can’t wash off. She positions herself near the shared dampener tray, hip just brushing the bench. Her ring is a new piece today, thin band, pale stone. I don’t look at it. I look at the tray.
Her elbow knocks the rim exactly half an inch.
It’s enough.
The tray skates toward the edge in a slow, cruel line. If I grab, it sloshes. If it sloshes, the solution coats the bench and the floor and both of us smell like failure for a week.
I set my right palm under the far corner and push out heat in a thin, flat sheet. No edges. No flash. A wide, heavy warmth that laughs at gravity and holds the surface tension like a hand pressed gently over water. The tray settles back into its stand with a sound like glass taking a breath it owes me. The liquid doesn’t crest. Not a drop hits the rim.
Professor Hyssop watches the last millimeter of movement with eyebrows halfway to his hairline. “Clean correction,” he says. “That was control.”
“Thank you,” I manage. The words scrape a little on the way out, but they aren’t shy.
Taya’s fingers find the inside of my elbow. She doesn’t squeeze because my nerves don’t need squeezing right now. Laz takes three photos. One of the tray, one of the distance to Cassandra’s hip, one of her ring when she raises her hand to tuck her hair behind her ear with exaggerated innocence. He doesn’t bag anything. Nothing spilled. Sometimes the story is that nothing happened because you refused to let it.
We finish our set. They dry straight and glossy. I write my name on the tag in block letters and resist the urge to add hearts. Petty joy is still joy. Cassandra drifts away when no one claps. The room’s buzz returns a notch at a time. My breath count adjusts itself without me forcing anything, which feels like cheating in a way I like.
The corridor outside smells like tile cleaner. Draven finds me there without appearing to hunt. He comes in at a diagonal so I don’t have to decide between stopping or being run over. His gaze checks for damage, not to scold, to measure.
“There’s an anonymous complaint,” he says. “Unsafe heat in lab.”
I hold my face still for the space of one inhale. That old fear wants to climb the back of my neck and sit on my head. I do not offer it any furniture. “We didn’t spill,” I tell him. “We didn’t even splash.”
“I know.” He looks past me and then back, as if mapping corridors inside his head. “Document. Continue. We’ll handle process.”
“I am documenting,” I answer. “Taya and Laz took photos. Hyssop witnessed the correction.”
“Good.” He tips his chin toward my notebook. “Keep Caelum’s tab on the spine. It will buy time if someone gets creative. Your breathing is better this week. Keep it boring.”
“Boring,” I repeat. “My new kink.”
He almost smiles. “I don’t need to know that.” He steps aside and the corridor becomes a corridor again instead of a pressure test. That’s his magic. He returns rooms to being rooms.
Combat smells like resin and old sweat. Ronan stands at center ring with a practice staff balanced across his palms, expression neutral enough to calm a riot.
“Warm-up forms. One minute each side,” he calls. “Three-count halt means break and check. Anyone striking through a halt can leave their weapon at the door next time.”
The room quiets the right way. I roll my wrists, feel Darian’s thread against my pulse, and set my breath where it belongs. Two short. One long. The count tucks in under everything.
Ronan moves first—clean lines, no theatrics. The staff is an extension of spine, not a stick. We mirror. By the second pass my shoulders stop arguing and my head clears.
Pairings go up on the board. I get Maela. Not ideal, not surprising. She smirks like she read a spoiler for a fight scene. Fine.
We tap ends; the drill starts. Advance, parry, slide; half-turn, reset. She presses tempo on the third exchange, tries to bait my hips open. I don’t give it to her. On the fifth, she slips an after-beat toward my ribs as if the halt might be optional again.
“Halt,” Ronan says, mild.
I stop dead. She doesn’t. My staff is already there, angled under her strike. The crack of wood on wood rings off the rafters. Her mouth flattens.
“Code four is not a suggestion,” Ronan adds without raising his voice. “Reset.”
We run it again. Maela adjusts, grinds her teeth, and—credit to her—keeps it within the rules. I keep my rhythm boring and effective. Not flashy. Control over victory. I can do that.
