Page 76 of Embers of Midnight

“Yeah,” I admit. “Edge of the path. Not the first time.”

“Mm.” He makes a thoughtful noise. “I’ll lay a simple trip-line. Nothing flashy, just a note if someone lingers where they shouldn’t. Off-duty, but not blind.”

“Thank you,” I say. It’s a small sentence with a lot under it.

He shrugs like it costs him nothing. “You’re ours by adjacency.” He glances at Ronan; they exchange a look that covers a decade in two beats.

Food dwindles. Drinks empty. The air sits on my shoulders warm and right. I catch Draven watching the table the way a man looks at a fire he trusts—respectful, ready. He meets my eyes and tips his bottle. I tip back. A silent exchange that says: keep going exactly like this.

“Stories,” Nyra demands, tapping the table in a rhythm that wants a fight. “One from your side, one from ours.”

Ash lights up. “Sera’s up.”

“I didn’t consent to storytelling,” I protest, and then roll my eyes at myself. “Fine. Once, when I was fifteen, I tried to steal a birthday cupcake from the kitchen at the group home. The cook caught me and told me to make the frosting if I wanted it that bad. I did. It was a disaster. She made me practice until I could make a decent swirl and then pretended she didn’t see me whenever I stole one after that.”

“Found family origin story,” Taya murmurs. “We love to see it.”

“Umbra?” I prompt.

Kieran points his bottle at Nyra. “Tell the ferry one.”

Nyra sighs, doomed. “I tried to fight a ferry.”

Thorn looks at the sky like this story isn’t his burden. “She believed the river was lying. She demanded a duel. The river did not engage.”

“It splashed me,” Nyra corrects. “Rude.”

“You slipped,” Rex says, fond.

“I slid with intent,” Nyra insists. “Anyway, don’t fight boats.”

“We learn so much here,” Laz says, deadpan.

Draven laughs into his drink and then stands, because heads of schools are allergic to lingering anywhere that looks like a good time. “I’ll leave you to your boat wars,” he says. “Thank you for not burning anything the administration has to explain.”

“We’re saving that for finals,” Ash chirps.

Draven points at him without looking. “Do not.”

“Yes, sir,” Ash replies, not sorry at all.

Draven taps my shoulder on the way out. The touch is light. “You’re doing well,” he says. “Don’t let anyone turn that into an argument.”

I nod because my throat is busy.

He disappears into the dark like he invented exits. The yard takes one beat to absorb his absence, then surges forward, because we built this atmosphere; it runs on us.

Cleanup happens because if we don’t start now, we’ll be scraping ribs off plates at midnight. I collect empties and pass them to Thorn, who stacks them like a Tetris god. Ash and I end up at the sink elbow-to-elbow because fate and dish soap are in love with us.

“Tonight’s a win,” he says over the water. “For the record.”

“Agreed,” I say, shoulder bumping his when he steals the sponge with a flourish.

He glances at my wrist, where metal and thread sit like an equation that solved itself. “North suits you,” he murmurs.

“I like knowing where to point,” I answer, quieter than I meant. “Also I like meat on sticks.”

He laughs, easy and clean. “I’ll keep you in skewers and direction.”