Page 71 of Embers of Midnight
Between rounds, Ronan walks the rack with a strip of chalk, checking shafts and edges like a man hunting for hairline lies. He pauses at one staff, thumb skimming a fine groove near the midpoint—exactly where a grip would fail under torque. He marks the wood with a small white X and writes audit on the tag.
A few students go quiet. Cassandra, on the bleachers behind the first row, lounges with a book she isn’t reading. Her eyes flick to the rack, then to me, then away like none of it touches her. My skin stays neutral. Laz would have gotten the photo; I log the moment in my spine.
“Back to pairs,” Ronan says.
The next block is close-quarter checks. A tight box. One step allowed. Elbow room only. I keep the staff high and cut angles with shoulders, not arms. It’s less dramatic, more honest. Maela tries to crowd; I let her commit, then rotate just enough thather balance breaks without me lifting a foot. She catches herself before she hits the mat. Barely.
“Point, Grace,” the assistant notes from the side.
We run the last sequence blindfolded—breath and sound, nothing else. The fabric smells like clean linen. It makes the floor louder. The moment it touches my face, my pulse wants to climb. I push it down with the count. Two short. One long. The exhale is a weight. I can hold that.
Maela’s feet scuff left. I shift my guard a hair and meet her on the beat. The wood glances off, not jarring, just proof. She tries again, heavier. I soften the block and let her power slide past my hip. The old version of me would have popped heat just to win. This one enjoys being precise.
“Remove the blindfolds,” Ronan calls.
Light returns. My eyes water for a beat, then steady. He gestures us all in.
“Notes,” he says. “If you’re fighting the weapon, your stance is lying to you. Fix your feet and your arms will stop screaming.”
A hand in the back goes up. “Some of us are at a disadvantage—different training backgrounds, different… support.” It’s polite until it isn’t. Cassandra’s voice without her hand. The implication does push-ups.
Ronan doesn’t take the bait. “You’re at different baselines,” he agrees. “That’s why we grade control, not drama. And before anyone wastes breath on gossip—rules apply to everyone. If you think someone’s getting an edge, bring me evidence. Not feelings.”
A few heads turn toward me. I look at the floor I’m standing on and refuse to make it smaller.
He nods to the rack. “You will all inspect your gear before drills. If you find a groove like that”—he taps the audited staff—“you bring it to me. We replace the weapon, and I file a report. Quietly, thoroughly. No theater.”
Maela exhales through her nose like she’s been asked to apologize to the concept of sportsmanship. I don’t love her. I also don’t need to. We’re done.
Final block: three-on-three flow, light contact, rotate roles every thirty seconds—front, support, interference. My team holds the line without bleeding points. When I cycle to interference, I pull one opponent half a step off-axis just by adjusting my tempo. It’s small and satisfying. Ronan clocks it. His mouth barely moves. I catch the approval anyway.
“Cool down,” he calls. “Hydrate. Then you can go pretend dinner doesn’t require energy.”
We stretch. The buzz in my arms turns from shake to hum. Ash leans on the rail for exactly long enough to be a nuisance and acomfort. “Look at you,” he murmurs when other ears are busy. “Practically boring. I’m aroused.”
“File a complaint,” I mutter, and he grins, pleased.
On my way past the rack I glance at the chalk X again. Someone tried to make a story happen in here. It didn’t land. That is its own kind of victory.
Ronan falls into step beside me at the door, shoulder nearly brushing mine. “Good work,” he says, plain. “Keep the breath. You’re cleaner when the room is loud.”
“I noticed,” I answer. The admission warms something that isn’t my magic. “Thanks for the audit.”
He lifts a brow. “We take care of our own. Go eat.”
I go. The hallway air tastes normal. My hands feel used, not shaky. By the time the house comes into view, the day has pared itself down to facts I like: I held my ground. I didn’t swing after the halt. And if someone wants a spectacle, they won’t get it from me.
Dinner at home tastes like heat and garlic and normal. Ronan cooks and pretends roasted vegetables are a sport. Darian checks a ledger with the kind of focus he applies to everything, then closes it with a sound that feels like closure. Caelum puts a bowl in front of me before I finish sitting. Ash sets forks with a flourish like he’s about to announce a show. Vex swoops low,steals a chunk of bread, and retreats to the lamp like the thief he is.
We eat first, talk later. It’s the rule even when no one says it out loud. When plates go empty, the table leans into business.
“Pattern,” I begin, because naming things makes them smaller. “Monday was the rotated rune tile and the after-strike. Then the door note. Frost on both. Today, frost filament in Dream Magic. Near-spill in lab, which did not spill. Performance Verification notice.” I glance at Draven’s name on a folded paper without pulling him into it. “Anonymous complaint about heat. All in one week.”
Ash lounges back, but the set of his mouth is sharp. “The girl has a calendar and a hobby. Neither of them include going outside.”
Ronan nods, leans his forearms on the table, and studies me like he’s plotting choreography for a fight I haven’t agreed to yet. “Combat Proving isn’t an ambush if we refuse to perform fear. It’s practice with witnesses. We will turn it into a showcase for control.”
My stomach flips and settles on the second beat. The bracelet sits warm against Darian’s thread. The two weights together feel strange and right.
