Chapter 19
Heat still clung to him when he woke. The air smelled of smoke and the faint trace of Noir Bloom, the soap Kylix used. Mirel drew a sharp breath.
“Kylix?”
No answer. The room was still warm, the dark heavy with last night’s heat. For a moment he thought the bed shifted, a hand on his shoulder, but it was only the ghost of a dream. He’d been searching through frost and smoke, calling Kylix’s name, always just one breath too late.
He rolled to his side, wincing as his back stretched.
The skin there still burned. Sitting up, he pressed a hand to his thigh and scrubbed his face until his breathing slowed.
His body remembered Kylix’s weight, the way heat had pinned him.
The dream clung to him, cold soil and silence, the graveyard where he’d once been nothing but frost and hunger.
He blinked toward the curved glass, chest tightening as memory slid against what had followed.
The water pipes ticked in the walls. Dust hung in the early light. He moved through the room slow, half afraid to find it empty. Kylix’s coat was gone; the air still smelled faintly of smoke. The sheets kept the shape of his body, memory refusing to fade.
On the table, a faint shimmer breathed across the curved wall. Letters formed in light, thin gold lines tracing his name before fading, then returning again like breath on glass.
Report called me to the main wing. Don’t wait up. I’ll collect you after your classes. – K
The glow dimmed, leaving a trace of warmth where the words had been, as if Kylix’s presence still lingered in the air.
Mirel stood by the glass a long time after reading the message.
The frost marks had faded, but his name still seemed written there.
He pressed his palm to the surface, half expecting the light to answer.
Nothing moved. The silence of the room pressed in.
He thought of Kylix’s voice, of the rough sound when patience thinned, the way it always dropped just before a command. It left a hollow in his chest he couldn’t name.
He swung his legs over the side, steadying himself before standing.
His body still ached from last night, as though Kylix’s hands had left a map beneath his skin.
He moved to the washroom. The shower was quick, heat cutting through the soreness in his muscles.
He flinched once, then let it rinse him clean.
When he finished, he toweled dry and reached for the uniform folded on the shelf.
A clean shirt, plain jacket, black trousers.
He buttoned it slowly, careful with each movement, as if order could steady him.
The room still held Kylix’s heat, the ghost of a hand pressed to air.
He checked the door once more, not for the lock but for habit, the way a runner tests a knee after a bad fall.
On the glass, the last smear of his name faded to nothing.
He touched the place anyway. The cold didn’t answer. It didn’t need to.
His multi-slate blinked.
Cyprian: Hey brother, how are you? Archer’s making tiganos again. I’ll pick you up in ten. Come join us.
He read it twice. The word brother felt strange in his mouth. In the old Helian tongue it would have been Davon-tus. Geron had taught him that once, back when the graveyard was still home. It had meant more than family. All of that was gone now. The graves, the roof, the quiet years.
He typed back quickly.
Mirel: I’d love to.
The seat vibrated under him as the hovercar lifted. The city below ran in bands of silver and gold. Cyprian talked, hands moving, voice alive with details. Mirel listened more than he answered. He liked the sound. It filled the space that used to be silence.
The car slowed near Umbral Park, not far from the academy. Cyprian nodded toward the view beyond the pane. “Archer lives close to the academy. That’s why I stayed with him when I first came here. I don’t anymore, but it was a good beginning.”
Archer waited at the building entrance, sleeves rolled, sunlight in his hair. “Well, look who finally shows up for breakfast,” he said. “Good thing I made extra or you’d be stuck with crumbs.”
Cyprian clapped his shoulder. “Be nice.”
“I am nice. Get upstairs before Helianth eats the proofing dough.”
Mirel blinked. “Helianth’s here?”
Cyprian laughed. “The cat. Not the prince.”
They climbed the narrow stair, the scent of oil and sugar thickening as they rose.
Music drifted from somewhere above, and warmth wrapped around them before they even reached the door.
The space opened in gold and spice, sugar in the air, coffee brewing.
The cat padded across the counter, tail flicking, gold eyes bright.
Archer moved like he measured time in grams, flour, oil, heat.
The cat threaded between ankles, claiming the kitchen with small, silent decrees.
Sugar kissed the pan and went amber at the edges.
Cyprian talked with his hands, knocking a spoon, catching it without looking.
Mirel listened and let the noise settle inside him, a sound that wasn’t survival but something gentler, like learning where to put a cup so it wouldn’t rattle.
The pan hissed when Archer dropped the dough. Sugar smoked on the edge. Light from the window caught a glass jar, turning the kitchen gold. The cat’s tail brushed Mirel’s ankle. He didn’t move, he liked the warmth of it.
Archer poured the coffee himself, steady and precise. Steam rose between them. Cyprian reached for a jar of honey and drizzled some into Mirel’s cup without asking. “He takes it sweet,” he said. The small gesture made something tighten behind Mirel’s ribs.
Archer slid a plate closer. “More?”
“Please.”
He filled it again, the spoon clicking against the rim.
The cat jumped to the table and sniffed at the sugar bowl before Archer shooed him away.
They cracked, easy and short, and for a minute it felt like a life that could last. The smell of warm bread, the scrape of chairs, the sound of Cyprian’s voice, together they made the room feel almost safe.
“Helianth,” Archer warned. “Stay off.”
The cat ignored him.
Cyprian moved easily around the kitchen. “Coffee?”
Archer lifted a brow at Mirel. “Another cup?”
“I’d love to,” Mirel said.
They sat at the small table, Archer leaning back with his mug, Cyprian reaching for sugar, Mirel quiet between them but listening. Morning slid clean through the windows, laying light across the plates.
“So, what do you study, Mirel?” Archer asked.
“He’s still catching up,” Cyprian said. Then, after a pause, smiling, “You’re speaking more easily than before. Is that because of your classes, or because of Kylix?”
Mirel’s mouth tilted faintly. “Professor Kiba says it’s about trust.”
Cyprian blinked, the warmth in his face quiet and real. “Then I’m glad you trust me.”
“Oh, sorry,” Archer flushed. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” Mirel murmured.
Archer busied himself at the counter, the smell of frying dough thickening in the air. He slid something golden onto a plate and dusted it with sugar before setting it down in front of Mirel.
“Try that before it cools,” Archer said. “My one redeeming skill. That crazy fucker Aviel thinks his cooking’s better, but we know the truth.”
Mirel took a cautious bite. The dough cracked and gave, sweet and soft. He looked up to find Archer watching him with quiet amusement.
“Good?” Archer asked.
Mirel nodded, mouth full. “Better than good.”
Cyprian chuckled. “He’s proud of those. Don’t let him fool you.”
From the counter came a sharp voice. “Helianth, off the counter!” Archer turned, exasperated.
Cyprian grinned. “You know he never listens.”
“That’s true,” Archer said with a sigh.
Mirel glanced toward the cat. “Is he named after the prince?”
Archer didn’t answer, pretending to focus on the pan.
Cyprian laughed. “Mirel, you haven’t noticed? My dear friend here has had a crush on the Imperial Prince for way too long.”
Archer grabbed the nearest towel and flung it at Cyprian, laughing despite himself. “I have not.”
They lingered by the door longer than needed. Archer’s laughter followed them down the stairwell.
Outside, the air smelled of rain and smoke. Vendors shouted from the square, their voices sharp against the hum of transport lines. For a few minutes the city felt almost kind.
They crossed through Umbral Park toward the university, the gravel paths damp from earlier rain. Leaves clung to benches, and the first vendors were setting up near the gates, steam curling from their carts. Two Luminary guards walked a short distance behind, silent shadows in dark coats.
“I heard Moargan say something this morning,” Cyprian said as they neared the park gates. “Something about another Aureate being planned.”
Archer raised a brow. “Already? I haven’t heard anything about that.”
“Apparently a cousin’s turning twenty,” Cyprian said. “His first victory.”
Archer’s mouth tightened. “Poor bastard who ends up in that arena.”
Cyprian didn’t reply, only met Mirel’s eyes. The look said enough.
When they reached the Academy steps, Cyprian pulled him into a brief hug. “It was good having you with us, brother. We need to do that more often.”
“Thank you,” Mirel said.
Cyprian released him and stepped back, watching as he entered the tall glass doors. His professor stood waiting by the desk.
“Good morning, Mirel,” Professor Kiba said. “Let’s start.”
By the end of class, Mirel’s ears were buzzing.
He packed his things, slipped the slate into his bag, and left the building.
The campus was still busy, students moving in clusters, their voices blending with the low hum of transports beyond the gates.
He kept his head down and ignored the glances that followed as he crossed the courtyard.