Page 86 of Embers of Midnight
ANCHOR → TAG → STEP OUT.
No rummaging. No theft.
I pick an anchor that tastes like safe without tasting like sleep. It’s mine, not borrowed from any of the men living rent-free in my chest. The mirror throws back my face and the room behind it. First pass: I tag a frame from last night—steam ghosting off tea, Ronan’s thumb tapping the table once, twice. I set it down and step out. It holds.
Second pass, the air behind my right ear tightens like a headphone seal. Not temperature—pressure. My ward tab warms under my thumb, a quiet counterpulse. The ripple kisses the glass and skates off without sticking.
Caelum clocks it. He doesn’t announce a culprit. He walks the line like he’s checking posture, stops at my station, and lifts a thin tuning fork. One light tap. The sound wipes the pressure clean. He slides a slip of paper onto my desk:log it—time, sensation, duration.Out loud he says, “Anchor first. Tag, then exit. Good.”
We rotate drills. Today’s add-on is aname lock—one true word attached to the frame so it’s harder to tug free. I tie mine short and quiet. Cassandra’s reflection two stations over is perfect posture and empty eyes. She doesn’t look at me. I don’t pay her.
Dismissal lands without fanfare. In the hall, Darian folds into step like he was always there. Two fingers brush the inside of my wrist—two short, one long. I match him.
Lunch is the right kind of loud. Taya slides in with a forest disguised as salad and pops a tomato into my bowl like bribery. Laz lays out his evidence kit like a stage magician and threatensto label my water bottle for me. “Hydrate or die-drate,” he intones, deadpan.
“Unsubscribe,” I tell him, and drink anyway.
Ash talks about frosting like it wronged him. Ronan pretends not to enjoy this part and fails in the eyes. Caelum steals my carrot and looks innocent. Darian eats like a man who knows he’ll be needed later. My stomach unclenches one degree at a time.
Alchemy & Runecraft is blessedly uneventful. Hyssop sets plates, we dip and hang, bubbles mind their business for once. Taya keeps time, Laz keeps receipts, I keep my breath. Cassandra exists two benches over like a concept. She doesn’t cast a shadow on me today. I don’t give her one.
By the time we hit the East Ring, my body feels like a tuned instrument. Not precious. Ready. The tribunes are half-full—students, faculty, a few people who like to clap when others sweat. The light is clean afternoon. The ring has three circles marked: outer for movement, middle for clash, inner for close work. Halt signals are already visible—gong on its frame, light strip along the floor edge, white flag at the score table.
Voss stands center with a clipboard like a personality trait. His smile looks borrowed. “Performance Verification,” he announces for the people in the cheap seats. “Candidate: Seraphina Grace. We are here to demonstrate control, not theater.”
Hyssop rolls out a rack draped in canvas. He unsnaps, reveals staffs and practice blades in sealed sleeves, opens each in sequence so the room can see it. Chalk check along the grain. Tap for hairlines. He marks one with an X and says audit without looking at me. I breathe. We aren’t pretending anymore that sabotage is rare.
Rell sits second row, elbows on knees, already annoyed at any future ethical violations. Holt leans on the rail with a small device he uses to time reactions and pretend he isn’t invested. Draven takes the edge seat like a man checking exits and makes himself quieter than his influence. Ronan stands as Safety, not judge, arms folded, expression neutral enough to make a riot nap. He looks at me once. I read the look. I’m here, it says. Do the thing.
At the tape table, a girl from Cassandra’s orbit offers to wrap my wrists with a smile she probably practiced in the mirror. I let her get exactly one loop in, then take the roll, finish it myself, and cut it clean. “Thanks,” I tell her, polite. “I like my hands attached.”
Hyssop grunts approval like a door sealing. Voss clears his throat. “Phase A. Forms and stops.” He gestures. “Begin when ready.”
I step into the outer circle with a staff that passes every check. Breath finds the count. Two short in. One long out. The long drops my shoulders where they belong. I keep the staff an extension of spine, not a stick I’m wrestling.
“Go,” Voss calls.
Lines and stops. Clean entries. No flourishes. The gong hits a three-count halt at unpredictable intervals. I stop on beat one, not two, blade and breath landing at the same time. The heat budget plates at my feet register green with a pulse of yellow when I push on purpose. I keep it under amber. The long exhale keeps the yellow from climbing. Voss tries to catch me racing. He doesn’t.
We switch to the short blade set. Same rules, different edges. My hips do more work; my shoulders do less. The light strip flashes halt with the gong. I drop it exactly where he wants it dropped. The room’s noise fades to footwork and plastic on resin. It’s almost boring. That is the point.
Phase B. Partners. Three blocks, forty-five seconds, Voss calling halts like a god with a petty streak. First match: Maela. Of course.
We tap tips. Her smile doesn’t meet her eyes. The rhythm is clean for ten seconds. Then Voss says halt and she lets an after-beat skate toward my ribs like it’s her hobby.
My staff is already there. The contact is firm, not a slap, a proof. I don’t look at her. I look at Voss. The room hears wood on wood and then silence.
“After-strike is a penalty,” Voss says, voice flat. “Mark.” He marks. Maela’s jaw tightens. We reset.
Second partner, assistant. Neutral stance, left side stronger than right. I adjust foot angle at first glance. He runs honest. We getthe halts right; the light strip, the flag, the gong all say the same thing. When he throws a fast right I shouldn’t bite on, I don’t.
Third partner, left-handed, likes to crowd. I don’t let him. Elbows at ribs, shoulder leading the line. When the blindfold segment drops over my eyes, the fabric smells like clean linen. I hear his feet scrape, hear the breath change right before he commits, and meet him with blade and hips, not biceps. The heat plates stay green. The gong calls halt. I stop. The room’s tension looks for a place to land. It doesn’t find one in me.
Phase C. Scenario. Two “opponents,” a marked “zivilist” in the danger zone, and a null-net throw line hung at the edge like a trap for idiots. Voss explains the obvious and then gets out of the way.
We start. I put myself between the dummy and the noise without trying to be noble. My left arm shields without exposing ribs. Opponent one tests distance; I give half a step, not a whole, tilt my staff to turn his line away from the dummy’s shoulder. Opponent two tries to make me look at him while he kicks the net. Cute. I don’t let my eyes follow his hands. I track the net.
It arcs wrong. Sloppy throw. The beads glitter along the edge.
