Page 85 of Embers of Midnight
He ships me a spoon. I taste. My eyes close against my will. “That’s delicious.”
“Competitive,” he corrects, grinning. He bumps my hip so I’ll trade places, then slides beside Ronan and plates like he’s earned co-chef status. He has.
Ronan flicks a glance at my hands, my shoulders, my breath. “Eat,” he says, and it lands like care, not command. A plate appears—eggs, blistered tomatoes, mushrooms, toast the exact shade that means someone watched it. He sets it in front of me and the table gets quiet for ten seconds while my body remembers food.
When the fork hits empty plate, Ronan taps the patio with two fingers. “Two minutes. Lines and stops.”
“Now?” I ask, but I’m already up. My stomach likes purpose.
The mat outside is cold through socks. He hands me the practice staff. “Relax your grip,” he says. “Elbows in. The weapon isn’t a stranger.”
Ash leans in the doorway with a mug and a smirk. “I’ll be your glamorous timer,” he announces, then to me, lower: “Chin level. You lift it when you get cocky.”
Ronan nods once—he hates agreeing with Ash on principle—and sets the beat. “Walk the circle. Clean shoulders. Halt on my mark.”
I let the breath count set the tempo. Two short. One long. The staff tracks my line; floor under feet, eyes steady. “Halt,” he says. I stop dead without the extra sway that used to get me hit. “Reset.” We do it again. And again. He watches wrists and feet, not face. When my right hand creeps too far forward, he nudges the angle with his thumb. “Close the triangle. Better.”
“Thirty seconds,” Ash calls. “And Sera, if you clip the basil planter I am staging a kitchen coup.”
I don’t clip the planter. On the next halt, Ronan softens the command so it’s almost a question. My body stops anyway. The old me would’ve added heat to show off. This me enjoys being boring.
“Blindfold,” he says, and tosses me the strip of linen we’ve made smell like clean and nothing else. The world narrows. He shifts his weight and the mat speaks. I meet him on sound, not sight—staff meeting staff with the kind of contact that doesn’t rattle your teeth. Two short. One long. My hands don’t shake.
“Good,” he says. He means it. Ash clicks his tongue like a judge at a very niche pageant.
“Time,” Ash announces. “Hydrate or perish.”
He passes me water; I drink because Ronan will hover if I don’t. Darian appears in the doorway like a quiet verdict and taps the inside of my wrist. Two quick, one long. The thread hums with the beat. “Anchor word first,” he reminds, as if he hasn’t already tattooed the concept into my brain. I nod. It lands.
“Again after dinner,” Ronan says. Not a question.
“Again,” I echo. I want the reps more than I want the applause.
Ash bumps my shoulder with his. “You look disgustingly competent. I’m furious.”
“You love it,” I tell him, and he does.
Vex drops from the curtain rod and lands on my shoulder like I invited him. He deposits a sesame seed into my palm with the gravity of a priest. “For luck,” he croaks.
“Thank you, criminal,” I say. He puffs up and side-eyes the tomatoes; Ash shields the pan with his body like a goalie.
We clear plates fast. Caelum steps through with two ward tabs tucked into his fingers and slides one onto the spine of my notebook, neat as stitches. “For hall noise,” he murmurs. “And for people who cough meanings.”
“Bless you,” I say, and tuck the notebook into my bag.
On the way out, Ronan hooks our pinkies for one step. It’s a stupid little touch that rearranges my ribs. The proving is still there at the end of the day, but it’s not a monster. It’s a test I’ve already started passing in a kitchen and on a mat and in the way I don’t reach for fire when breath will do.
I tie my laces tight. The bracelet warms against the thread. Today I walk into the ring with clean hands and a boring heartbeat. The voice in my head that used to call me small tries to stand up. I sit her back down and open the door.
Ash leans his hip to the counter and inspects me like a jeweler. “You look like a felony I would gladly commit.” He nudges a bowl of strawberries closer with the back of his knuckles, dramatic. “Today we demonstrate boring excellence and then commit celebratory crimes against frosting.”
“Schedule?” Ronan asks.
“Dream Magic first,” I say. “Lunch. Alchemy. Then the ring.”
“We walk you to the door,” he says. It’s not a discussion. It’s a piece of the day.
Dream Magic & Mental Defense keeps the kind of quiet Caelum builds on purpose. One wall of mirrors. Chalk already on the board:
