Page 51 of Embers of Midnight

The lab smells like resin and lemon oil. Professor Ellaria Ventress places brass rings on each bench like she’s doling out tests to children she expects to disappoint her. We work small: thumbnail flames in the ring, count to ten, no drift, no drama. Laz counts, taps once when I push too hard, taps again when I starve it. On the third try, it holds like it remembered who it belongs to.

“Economy fits you,” Ventress murmurs, which in her language is confetti. That’s all the grace we get. Good. I’m too keyed up to enjoy praise anyway.

Disguise & Human Integration is a different beast. Professor Maddox, ex-fed posture, eyes that catch tells for sport. The room is a pop-up market. Real angles, fake chatter, cameras disguised as screws. Assignment: blend, buy, exit. Powers off.

Cassandra arrives late with a breeze that smells like money. She’s immaculate in humidity, which should be illegal. Her gaze makes a slow pass over me as if I’m smudging her lens.

“Oh,” she says, warm enough to burn. “You’re still here.”

“Tragic for you,” I answer, mild. “I do tend to remain in places I was invited.”

A corner of her mouth lifts. “That remains to be seen.”

We run the drill. My slipstream takes me past three cameras, one glare patch, and a fake toddler who weaponizes a lollipop. Coffee beans secured, exit clean. Maddox gives me a curt nod. “Blind spot at the faucet handle,” he notes. “Use it next time.”

“Copy,” I say.

Cassandra glides by, fingers trailing a display she shouldn’t touch. “Careful,” she murmurs just for me. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of being ordinary.”

“Some of us don’t need the crutch of being tragic,” I reply, same volume. “Must be exhausting, starring in your own cautionary tale.”

Her eyes sharpen. “Ambitious of you. Considering your… lack of background.”

“I can read,” I say. “And walk. And do two things at once. Watch.”

She smiles like a blade, bumps a mirror with a nail too casual to be an accident, and a glare flashes directly across my path. It would blow a civilian cover in a real street.

“Virelle,” Maddox says without turning. His voice could cut rope. “Reset. No interference. Again.”

She steps back, posture never cracking. We rerun. Clean this time. I buy the beans, exit without humming like a target. On the way out she leans too close.

“You don’t belong at their table,” she says, sweet.

I keep walking. “You don’t get to assign seating.”

Taya slides into my side when we’re clear, eyes lit. “Ten out of ten,” she whispers. “Minimal bloodshed.”

“Growth,” I say, and my palms stop itching.

Lunch ambushes me—in a good way. Ash has claimed a corner table with a view; Ronan takes the other side and makes the small space feel intentional, not crowded. The cafeteria hums. I set my tray down and the bench accepts my weight like it was waiting.

Ash leans in. “Okay, priorities. Do you like crispy potatoes or will you make me eat both portions like a hero.”

“I like them,” I say, stealing one from his tray. “And I’ll prove it.”

Ronan’s knee bumps mine under the table. Not an accident. A quiet offer. I let our knees touch and pretend my pulse isn’t doing laps. Under the table, his pinky touches mine—one brush,a second, a hook. It’s so small it’s stupid how loud it is in my body. I hook back.

“You’re quiet,” Ash says, softer than he performs for the world.

“I did a whole feelings speech this morning,” I say. “My introvert card needs a snack.”

He laughs, not loud. “Fair.” Then, less joking: “After classes, come home. I’ll make dinner. We can pretend the weekend is early.”

“Deal.” The word lands easy.

Ronan steals a carrot from my plate and looks unrepentant about it. “How was Maddox,” he asks.

“Sharp,” I say. “Gave me one note, which—annoying—but right.”