Page 75 of Embers of Midnight
Rex taps his fork against his glass. “I once lit my own hair on fire trying to impress someone who already liked me.”
“Tragic,” I say. “Iconic.”
“Caelum,” Taya sings. “Confess.”
He sighs, doomed. “I broke a window with a high note during practice and blamed the wind.”
“Did the wind take the fall?” Laz asks.
“It had an airtight alibi,” Caelum says. “I paid for the glass.”
We slide into games because sitting still starts to feel like planning, and this is not a planning night. Charades, teams mixed. Kieran throws himself into it with the dedication of a man repairing a reputation. Ash and he go head-to-head. Ash wins with something that looks like a squid union negotiating against a seagull cartel.
“You’re a menace,” Kieran informs him, sweating and happy.
“I’m a gift,” Ash corrects.
Vex streaks through the game and steals a hot dog. Nyra offers pursuit; Vex offers mockery. Silks peeks from the cuff of Ash’s sleeve as he reaches for more chips. The snake is only ink, but my brain supplies the cool weight anyway. Morrow’s shadow along Ash’s forearm looks like consent for chaos.
Halfway through the evening, when plates are mostly bone and sauce, the gate latch clicks. Conversation dips because instinct. Then the figure in the frame resolves to Headmaster Draven wearing a jacket that makes him look like he invented restraintand a six-pack of something amber. The relief in the table is quiet and immediate.
“Headmaster,” Ronan greets, not standing because he hates theater.
“Draven,” Draven corrects, the half-smile that lowers shoulders. “I was promised smoke and the illusion of free time.”
“You’re late,” Ash says, which would get anyone else exiled. “We saved you a rib out of pity.”
“Mercy is appreciated.” He takes the offered plate, scans the table in a way that feels like checking for sharp corners, and lands on me. “Seraphina.”
“Sera,” I say automatically. “Welcome to chaos.”
“I approve.” He taps necks as he passes—Ronan, Darian, Caelum—an old-friend gesture that means more held than shown. He takes the chair at the edge that still sees everything and makes himself smaller than his influence. It’s a good trick.
“How was your week?” he asks me, conversational. “I’ve heard… rumors of competence.”
I blade my hand left-right. “Medium competence. High documentation. And I didn’t set anyone on fire outside class. That counts as growth.”
“It does,” he agrees. “About next Thursday’s proving—don’t spend energy feeding a story you didn’t write. Treat it as a demonstration for people who haven’t been paying attention. You’ll be fine.” He sips his drink. “We’ll be there.”
My lungs try to behave and mostly succeed. “Thanks.”
Kieran lifts his bottle. “To boringly excellent footwork,” he declares. “And to grills that don’t explode.”
“Amen,” Thorn intones, deeply sincere.
Rell passes by the back hedge and lifts two fingers in a teacherly salute without crossing the wards. Draven raises his bottle in return and doesn’t invite him in; not everyone needs to be everywhere.
As dusk thickens, someone finds the string lights dimmer. The yard changes temperature from party to gathering. Caelum disappears inside and returns with his violin. He doesn’t announce anything. He tunes with two small adjustments and starts something low, clean, unshowy. The first long line of sound drops the table into a hush that feels like the shape of safety.
Nyra leans into Rex’s shoulder, eyes half-closed. Thorn breathes big and even, the kind of breath you share with dogs and newborns. Ash goes still and watches me instead of the bow, for once not performing. Ronan sets his hand on the table near mine, palm up in a quiet offering. I put my hand in his without thinking. He doesn’t hold too tight.
When Caelum finishes, the yard exhales. Taya blinks back water and doesn’t apologize. Laz chews his lip like he’s writing the moment into a book no one else gets to read. Draven pinches the bridge of his nose and then smiles, small and honest.
“Again,” Nyra orders. Caelum’s mouth curves, and he does, a shorter piece this time, spry and sure, like laughter figured out how to become sound. It helps shake the mood loose before it turns into reverence and makes us weird.
Games resume. Somebody produces a deck of cards from nowhere and we fall into spoons because we lack dignity. I hold my own until Kieran cheats with a wink, which I respect. Darian ruins three lives by stealing a spoon without a sound, then denies everything. Ash pretends to die, beautifully. Ronan wins the way mountains win—by existing until everyone else gives up.
Between rounds, Kieran stands and scans the yard like a man who’s seen things explode because somebody forgot a small detail. He touches the gate latch, then the ward carved into the post, a quiet check. “You clocked watchers on your way home?” he asks me under the noise, not paranoid, practical.
