Chapter 161: 161: Academy Life Starts XVIII (Birthday celebrations part Eleven)

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"How do you feel?" she asked. "Tell me the truth."

"Like the world is quieter inside," he said after thinking. "Like... I have a new room to stand in. You?"

"As if I chose well," she said, and, after a heartbeat, "and as if the goddess might be sad for us in a bad way. I did something that was forbidden for me. But I really liked it."

He was surprised, worried and relieved at the same time, that he satisfied her. Then he sobered. "Sera... I know you’re you —temple, vows, the weight of your family name— and I don’t want to make your life heavy with my choices."

She shook her head, hair whispering against the pillow. "You did not take something from me tonight," she said. "We gave it to each other. When I choose to serve the goddess, I do not choose a life without joy. The goddess is not barren stone. She is bread and hearth and the warmth that keeps a city kind. And—" her eyes brightened with mischief "—she didn’t stop me from doing it. I can hear her thoughts. She talked to me. She says what I shouldn’t do. This time she didn’t stop me. So I wanted to do it with you."

He had many thoughts. But he says, "I want to be careful with you. With this. Don’t worry."

"We will be," she promised. "Slow when slow is wise. Brave when brave is needed. And honest always." She tucked herself closer into his side, her head just under his chin. "There are things we should talk about tomorrow. How to hold this and still stand where we have to stand. The academy. The tests. The... politics that I wish were only in books. My church duties." Her mouth quivered. "But we don’t have to solve the world tonight."

"No," he agreed, and let his hand rest at the safe curve of her shoulder. "Tonight we can keep a small corner of it."

They drifted in and out of small talk and silence. Sera told him about the first time she had snuck bread to the baker’s scrawny dog as a child and the priestess who had pretended not to see — and later had shown the child how to add rosemary to the crust and make enough for two. John told her a memory of the midwife (without revealing his identity) who had taught him how to mend a sleeve with patience: the thread is small, but it holds the world together if you let it. The old woman who raised me taught it.

They honored their dead, gently, under their breath.

When the candle gave its last thin breath and the room became the moon’s, they kissed again — sleepy, grateful. Sera laughed once into his collarbone at something only she could feel. He stroked her hair and listened to her breathing steady.

"John?" she murmured, half-dreaming now.

"Yes."

"Tomorrow, I will still choose this. A life with you."

"Me too," he said, and felt the promise settle into his bones like a beam in a house, strong and quiet.

Downstairs, the party kept its last heartbeat.

Fizz had declared a contest called "Rune or Rubbish," which involved Penny holding up chalk scrawls on a tray while Elara, of all people, argued that one scribble was a wind-binding and Edda swore it was just a very cocky letter S. Old Ina had fallen asleep in a chair with a shawl and a piece of ribbon still in her hand, smile fixed like a lamp that refused to go out. The roof cat had discovered a paper crown and was wearing it with deep moral authority while Pim practiced a dance step he’d learned from Fizz in his dreams: two hops, a turn, a bow, and a finger-gun at the ceiling that earned him applause and a stern.

Penny’s laugh was the kind that filled a room and settled in the beams. She had turned the Bent Penny into a garden of cheap garlands and real joy — lanterns hung like small moons, flowers cut from colored paper and stuck to the walls with honey. She poured cider for Elara (who sniffed it and traded for water), set a plate of grilled chicken near Edda (who pretended not to care and then absolutely did), and asked Fizz whether he wanted his tenth slice of cake or merely intended to negotiate with it for the rest of the night.

Fizz stood on a chair to raise a cake toast that turned into a story about "the time I outwitted a thundercloud," complete with sound effects. When the room demanded proof, he struck a match, stared at it with great seriousness, and declared, "I will not play with the fire element tonight. It is John’s birthday, not someone’s funeral." Even Elara let the corner of her mouth tilt.

Fizz started a quiet common part song he learned; Ina woke long enough to hum along to the last verse. Edda leaned against the bar, watching the door and the windows in the old habit of people who lived by not being surprised. When she realized she was still doing it here, she shook her head, smiled once, a quick private thing, and stopped.

Upstairs, Sera and John drifted toward sleep by increments. He woke once in the night and found her turned toward him, one hand tented on his chest, as if ensuring the roof had not fallen. He let himself look at her naked body —really look— at the way sleep softened her mouth, at the small crease between her brows that was already smoothing because her body had decided he was not dangerous. He felt something both fierce and gentle flare inside him at once: the vow to keep this gentleness possible, the refusal to let any power to break what he should shelter.

He did not name that feeling. He did not need to. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. She made a tiny, pleased sound and shifted her position.