Page 65 of Embers of Midnight

He leaves with the same quiet he brought in. The room settles. My phone buzzes like a timed rescue.

Darian: 08:00. Training room. Same cues. Proud of the minute.

Me: Bring two minutes and a trophy.

Darian: I’ll settle for breath and shoes.

A second ping.

Ash:[meme of a raccoon holding a sword]Bureaucracy Hexed. Little Flame, I will drown the paperwork in metaphorical oil and fry it into snacks if necessary. Also I ordered you a wrist brace because Amazon Prime has no chill. Do not fight me.

Me: I will fight you with my mind.

Ash: I accept defeat.

Another.

Caelum:audio: 0:10A low, clean line like the one he plays when my nerves act feral. Text attached: For the hallway between classes. Proud of your catch.

Me: Your timing is suspicious and helpful. Thank you.

Taya:photo of the rotated tile + timestamp.We’ve got you. Also I’m buying you gloves that say “nice try.”

Laz: I printed the pic. Going on my wall of crimes.

A lone crow emoji lands in the group chat—Vex adding commentary without waking anyone. Then silence.

I set the phone down and close my eyes for a breath that doesn’t hurt.

When I open them, there’s a slip of paper pinned to my doorframe on the inside, like someone wanted me to find it going out, not coming in. The thread holding it is black. The paper has a faint frost kiss, like it rode in a pocket with something colder than air.

I don’t touch it with my hands. I fetch the tongs from the little kit Laz bullied me into keeping. The note is short.

Know your lane.

That’s it. No signature. The handwriting is patient, like the person who wrote it thinks they’re smarter than the rest of us.

I bag it. I take a photo with the time. I send it to the group chat with three words: Not spiraling. Documented.

Ash replies with a skull and crossbones and the words CALMLY MURDEROUS. Darian sends a period, which is his version of I’m listening. Caelum replies with a singleNoted.Ronan doesn’t text. I hear him move in the hall and feel my shoulders drop anyway.

I brush my fingers over the thread on my wrist. It’s light. It doesn’t pull. It just reminds.

Tomorrow I train at eight. I eat lunch with people who don’t flinch from my heat. I keep proof. I stop playing fair with people who don’t.

I turn off the lamp. My room holds steady. My breath matches the count without effort. The bruise throbs like a metronome. I let it. The last thought before sleep arrives is a clean decision dressed as a promise: I choose ready over lucky.

The Gift I Keep

Seraphina

The training room at eight chewed the nerves out of me and handed back breath that worked. By the time I cross the kitchen threshold, my palms are warm for good reasons and my head doesn’t buzz. The thread on my wrist—the one Darian tied yesterday—sits where pulse meets skin, light as a reminder. The cut and bruise from yesterday are gone, just memory and a faint itch where skin finished the last line of work overnight. I heal fast. Perk of being a living furnace.

Ronan mans the stove, pan in one hand, wrist turning like that’s a language. The smell is butter and thyme. He slides eggs from skillet to plate, sets it down, gives me a quick once-over. His eyes catch on the thread and then on the spot where bandage used to live; he notes the lack of it and moves on.

“How’s the floor,” he asks, meaning me, meaning post-training, meaning breath.

“Level,” I answer, and steal a roasted mushroom. “Darian fought me and won.”