Page 93 of Embers of Midnight
Taya knocks once and then forgets the second tap because she’s Taya. She sidelines my ribs with a hug and then steps back to study the blade like a proud aunt. Laz peeks around her with two cameras and a grin so big it might be illegal in three dimensions.
“You good?” Taya asks.
“I’m good,” I say, and mean it. The ache is there like a bruise after a fight you won.
Ash taps the horn spine, reverent for once. “They thought they could take a piece of you.” His voice goes soft in the dangerous way. “You made it sharp.”
“Help me keep it that way,” I say.
“Always,” he answers.
We clean the bench. Ronan locks the forge. Darian scribbles the time and runes into a ledger like a man who knows memory lies if you don’t pin it to paper. Caelum strings a ward across the workshop that will tell on anyone who breathes on this door wrong.
I slide Pyrelight through the new loop on my belt and feel stupidly whole.
Outside, the day keeps being a day. Classes exist. People eat lunch. Gossip tries to crawl into the cracks and gets salted out. We’re not done. Hunters don’t vanish because we made something bright. Cassandra still breathes and plots and paints her nails with patience.
But for the first time since the alley, my body isn’t braced for impact. My hands don’t shake. My breath lives where I put it. Two short. One long. The exhale feels like a door that opens when I ask it to.
We’ll handle the rest when it arrives.
For now, I carry a blade with a spine that remembers me, and a house that doesn’t make me apologize for coming home.
Lunch, Lies & Leverage
Seraphina
Breakfast smells like cinnamon and ambition. Ronan plates something that looks illegal before nine a.m.; Darian moves a pen down a study schedule like he’s negotiating peace. Ash leans on the counter, tattoos quiet for once; Morrow and Silks rest as a wolf shadow along his forearm and a snake band at his wrist, both just ink, both somehow company. Vex drops to the back of my chair like I owed him rent.
Darian nudges a mug toward me. “Midterms start Wednesday. Where do you feel thin?”
“History.” I fork eggs to buy a second. “Dates slip unless I staple them to a story. I could use a drill-sergeant. Without the shouting.”
He smirks, almost a smile. “Tonight after dinner. We’ll map cause to effect. No trivia duels.”
“Thank God.” I sip tea. The bracelet Ronan gave me sits warm against the thread at my other wrist. Two anchors. Two different weights. Both mine.
Ash bumps my shoulder. “You’ll melt midterms for fun, Little Flame. And then you’ll act surprised because you’re emotionally constipated about praise.”
“Project less,” I tell him.
“I could project more,” he offers.
“Don’t you dare,” Ronan says, and slides bacon onto my plate like he knows my limits better than I do. He does.
We eat. The room holds steady. I match the breath count Darian taught me—two short, one long—until the jitter at the base of my skull shuts up and lets me be a person.
Supernatural Ethics & History carries the usual hush before Rell starts. He writes AUTHORITY vs. PROTECTION across the board in neat letters. His tone stays even while he walks the room through case law that dressed control up as safety until someone bled for it.
Halfway through, a boy in row three raises his hand with a face that wants to be helpful and fails. “What happens if a student is… unstable?” He doesn’t look at me; everyone else does. “Do we have removal protocols?”
The old reflex tries to lace my hands into fists. I relax my fingers on purpose. Two short; one long.
Rell doesn’t blink. “We have support protocols. Removal is for predators, not learners. If you see someone struggling, your job is to keep the room safe and help them get the tools. Anyone hoping for a spectacle can take Theater Arts.”
A soft ripple of laughter breaks the tension. I add a quiet hash mark under Reasons To Bake Professor Rell a Cake.
When class ends, whispers hitch along the hall like burs. I ignore them until one sticks.
