Page 64 of Embers of Midnight

Cassandra watches me watch her. She smiles like a dare. I smile back like a promise.

Combat with Master Voss is a lesson in how to make a class feel like a courtroom without the dignity. He pairs me with Maela from Cassandra’s circle, because of course he does, and calls for controlled break/retreat drills with blunted weapons.

The first run is fine. The second has teeth.

“Advancing pair,” Voss calls. “Halt on my mark.”

We move. I give ground on the beat, block on the exhale. Maela is faster than she looks and enjoys it too much. Voss calls halt. I lower my weapon half a hand. She doesn’t. The after-strikesnaps across my forearm hard enough to sting through the padding and catches a rib when I stumble.

The breath I swallow tastes like copper. I don’t drop. I don’t swing back. I straighten. Every muscle in my back wants to light. I make them wait.

The far door opens. Ronan steps in for a faculty hand-off and takes in the tableau in one sweep: my arm, Maela’s stance, Voss’s pleasant blank.

His voice is low enough that it doesn’t travel past the first row. “Code four,” he says, eyes on Voss. “No strikes on halt.”

Voss smiles with his mouth. “Intensity builds resilience.”

“Restraint builds teams,” Ronan says, and it isn’t a threat. It’s a fact with heat under it. “That after-strike lands anywhere higher and we write an incident report.”

The room goes quiet. Maela finds a very interesting spot on the floor. Voss waves us to the benches with a doctor’s bored flick.

I walk off under my own power because pride is a predator and I hate feeding it. The cut on my forearm is shallow, the bruise under my ribs a dull throb that will sing louder later. I breathe and keep my eyes where they belong.

Cassandra watches from the bleachers, expression smooth. Her pupils look pleased. I file the sight the way Laz files photos.

Med bay smells like antiseptic and oranges. Darian cleans the cut with steady hands and a patience that lowers the pain just by existing. He taps my wrist once when my breath hitches and waits until it evens.

“It’ll scab pretty,” he says, dry enough to make me snort despite myself.

Draven sticks his head in like a man who knows timing. Laz hands him the bagged rune tile with a little bow too dramatic to be legal. Draven looks from the bag to my arm and back.

“Document,” he says. “No escalation without proof.” He says it to the room and to me, then leaves before we have to perform gratitude.

Ash walks me to the stairs after. He doesn’t crack a joke until we hit the landing.

“Little Flame,” he says, solemn as a priest. “I will personally set bureaucracy on fire if it breathes on you wrong.”

“Metaphorically,” I say.

He tilts his head. “Mostly.”

By the time I get to my room, the bruise has opinions. I shower because heat helps, bandage the forearm with the med bay kit, pull on a soft shirt that doesn’t argue with gauze, and crawl under my blanket with my phone.

A knock lands on my door, quiet. The sound goes through my ribs. I open.

Ronan stands there, shoulders tight under his hoodie, eyes hot where they should be calm. He doesn’t step in without a word; he waits for me to tilt my head.

“Come in,” I say, and move aside. My room holds both of us without feeling small.

He looks at my arm first. Then at my face. “I nearly lost my temper,” he says, voice low. “Seeing the after-strike. I didn’t because it would’ve made it worse for you in that moment. But I won’t pretend calm when you’re hurt.”

“I don’t want you to,” I say. The truth comes easy. “I want you to name it before it breaks. Like that. Exactly like that.”

Some of the tension leaves his shoulders. He reaches up and cups the back of my head for one long second, warm palm, careful pressure. No claim. An anchor. He kisses my forehead. The heat that rolls under my skin is not fire; it’s relief with a better name.

“Eat something,” he says, because of course. “Text if you need me. I’m next door.”

“I know,” I say, and I mean every letter.