Chapter 63: THE NIGHT WE WON
The apartment was warm. The lanterns had been lit for hours, their glow a soft gold against the stone walls, and the fire in the hearth had burned down to embers that pulsed like a slow heartbeat. The smell of fresh bread hung in the air, thick and sweet, because Theresa had started baking the moment she got home and hadn’t stopped. Her sleeves were pushed up past her wrists, flour dusted across her forearms, her hands working dough with the same steady precision she brought to everything.
The bond between her and Dominic hummed with quiet warmth. She’d felt the moment Wobbly formed the helmet, felt the cold fury beneath it, and felt him choose to release. That was the part she kept returning to, turning over in her mind like a stone she couldn’t put down. He could have killed Victor. He chose not to.
Florence had different ideas about how to spend the evening. She’d returned from the arena still buzzing with adrenaline, still replaying the moment Wobbly had consumed Victor’s lightning and the crowd had erupted, and she’d decided that sitting quietly with tea was not an acceptable way to celebrate. She raided the cupboard and emerged with three bottles of wine that Dominic didn’t remember buying and a grin that suggested she’d been saving them for exactly this occasion.
"We’re celebrating," she announced, setting the bottles on the table with a decisive thunk. "Master just put Victor Harwick on his knees in front of everyone. That deserves drinking."
"Where did you even get that?" Dominic asked.
"The cupboard. It’s been there for weeks. You weren’t using it." She was already pouring, filling three cups with a generous hand. "Theresa, stop baking. You’ve made enough bread to last a month."
Theresa set her dough aside and wiped her hands on a cloth. "One day you’ll appreciate my hard work."
"Today is not that day. Drink." She raised her cup. "To Master. To Wobbly. To the look on Victor’s face."
"To the next one," Dominic said.
"True. But tonight, to Victor’s humiliation. I’m remembering that face forever."
They drank. The wine was cheap and slightly bitter, the kind of wine that came from a vendor near the guild hall who didn’t ask questions. Dominic didn’t care. The warmth spread through his chest, loosening the tension coiled there since the match began. Wobbly was on the table, its glow a steady blue, watching the three of them with what might have been amusement.
A knock at the gate. Soft. Hesitant. The sound of knuckles barely brushing wood.
"I’ll get it," Dominic said. He crossed the room and opened the door to the courtyard. The night air was cool against his face, carrying the distant sound of the city still celebrating. The mana-lanterns along the street were lit, their warm gold glow spilling across the cobblestones.
Lysandra stood in the golden lantern light, a paper bag from the sweet shop clutched in one hand. "I brought pastries. Florence told me there would be wine."
"She came to find you?" Dominic asked.
"In the infirmary. She said, ’We’re getting drunk tonight and you’re coming over.’ Then she walked away before I could answer."
Dominic stepped aside. "Come on in then."
"There she is!" Florence pressed a fourth cup into Lysandra’s hands. "Your performance out there was exceptional. Drink."
Lysandra took a small sip and wrinkled her nose. "This is terrible."
"I know, right?" Dominic said. "Florence bought it."
"I found it. There’s a difference."
"That doesn’t make it better."
"It’s free wine. Stop asking questions."
***
The night unwound in lazy spirals. Florence told increasingly loud stories about the Thalassian Empire, her hands gesturing wildly, until Theresa quietly replaced her wine with tea. At that point she switched to critiquing Victor’s footwork with the precision of someone who’d been waiting weeks to tear it apart, her words sharp even as her eyelids grew heavy.
Lysandra, two sips into her cup and pink-cheeked, found herself demonstrating the vaulting technique she’d used against Pembroke while Florence nodded along from the couch and offered corrections in a voice that was slowly losing its edge. Wobbly watched from the table, its color shifting to a warm, amused gold.
Florence eventually stretched out across the couch, her head settling into Dominic’s lap, and fell asleep mid-sentence, her critique of Victor’s footwork trailing off into silence. Lysandra, humming something that might have been a drinking song, sat cross-legged on the floor with Wobbly in her lap until her eyes started to droop and her humming faded into quiet breathing.
Dominic sat at the end of the couch, Theresa tucked against his other side, her head resting against his shoulder, her hand spread over his chest. Her breathing was slow and steady, warm through the fabric of his shirt. His fingers traced absently through Florence’s hair where her head lay in his lap, the crimson strands slipping between his knuckles, her face peaceful in a way it never was when she was awake. She made a small, contented sound and didn’t stir. Theresa shifted closer, her arm sliding across his waist, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
He’d crossed two names off his list. Tomorrow, he’d face the wall. But tonight, the apartment was full of warmth and the quiet certainty that he was exactly where he belonged.
***
Later, after finding his way out from between the ladies, Dominic walked Lysandra to the gate. The street was dark, the mana-lanterns burning low, their gold light reflecting off the cobblestones slick with melted snow. She stopped at the gate and turned to face him, her hands fidgeting with the strap of her rod harness, her eyes fixed somewhere around his collarbone.
"Thank you," she said quietly. Her voice was barely above a whisper, the way it always was when she wasn’t fighting. "For tonight. For... everything." Her fingers twisted the leather strap. "I thought after losing to Pembroke I would feel worse. But I don’t. This was fun."
She stopped, her cheeks flushing deeper. She’d said more than she meant to. Her eyes stayed fixed on his collarbone.
"You did really well against him, so don’t put yourself down," he said finally. "And even he acknowledged your skills, saying you’d be champion one day, so hold your head up."
Her head lifted a fraction. Their eyes met for half a second before she looked away, her blush spreading to her ears. "You really think that’s true?"
"I know it is."
She nodded, a tiny, almost invisible motion. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she stepped forward, rose on her toes, and pressed a quick, feather-light kiss to his cheek. She pulled back immediately, her face crimson, her hands shaking on the harness strap.
"Goodnight," she breathed, and turned and walked away so fast she was almost running, her rods bouncing against her back, her footsteps quick and light on the wet stone.
Dominic watched her go until she disappeared around the corner. He touched his cheek, a faint warmth spreading there that had nothing to do with the wine. Wobbly burbled on his shoulder, a quiet, knowing sound.
***
In the Harwick estate, the halls were silent. Victor knelt on the cold stone of his father’s study, his armor removed, his blade taken. Hector stood with his back to him, facing the tall window and the still, cold night beyond. Snow had begun to fall again, drifting past the glass in lazy spirals.
"You were beaten by a C-rank Summoner," Hector said. His voice was quiet and controlled. "You were brought to your knees by his summon. You were publicly accused of attempted murder, and then you lost to the man you tried to have killed. A Kane." He turned. His eyes were cold. "Explain yourself."
"He had abilities I didn’t anticipate. I would have won the match, he simply caught off—"
"The summon. That... blob, crawled into your skull, made you kneel pathetically at the mercy of that boy." Hector sat at his desk, the leather of his chair creaking under his weight. "I gave you resources. I gave you men. I gave you every advantage our name could provide. And you still lost in every conceivable way to a dead house and a slime."
Victor’s jaw tightened. "He was stronger than I had anticipated, if I had more information—"
"No. That doesn’t excuse your failure." Hector leaned back. "The Kane boy has humiliated this family twice now, through Reyes’s accusation, and through you. The damage is done. The question is what we do about it."
"I can fix this. After the Trials, he will be vulnerable. I’ll find a chance. Just him and—"
"You’ve had your chances. You’ve failed every one." Hector’s voice was final. "The Kane boy is no longer your concern. I will handle this myself."
Victor’s face went pale. He rose, his hands shaking, and walked to the door. He didn’t look back.
Alone in the dark, Hector reached for a blank sheet of parchment and began to write. The scratch of his quill was the only sound in the silent study, sharp and deliberate, a blade being drawn across paper.