When the core burns |18+

Let it go

Chapter 11

The living room looks like a picture you're not supposed to touch. I sit on the edge of the cushion anyway, hands knotting and unknotting in my lap, trying not to breathe like I'm taking up space I didn't pay for. Being alone in here is awkward.

"Mm." A voice hums from the doorway. "That posture. Those fists. That 'please don't notice me' stare. You are not ready."

I turn. Cassian leans on the frame like he's been practicing the pose. Sleeves pushed up, that quiet glow at his temple catching the light. His smile curves like a dare. "Ready for what?" I ask.

"For the Core," he says, marching in with fake severity. "For being seen and not swallowed. Training is required."

I squint. "You're joking."

"Never," he says, which is a lie. "Stand up."

I sigh, but I stand. He circles me once like a judge at a pet show, humming to himself, then plants himself in front of me and bows. It's neat. Precise angle, straight back, just long enough to say I saw you. "Lesson one. The bow," he says. "Respectful, not worship. Thirty degrees. No coin-hunting on the floor. Your turn." I try. It feels wrong halfway down. Cassian throws a hand to his heart and stumbles to the couch like I stabbed him. "Catastrophe! Seven dynasties just fainted."

"It wasn't that bad." I say, fighting a smile.

"It was a crime," he says, peeking through his fingers. "Again."

I bow again, shorter, steadier. He narrows his eyes like he's measuring me with invisible rulers. "Passable. Barely. If anyone fines you, send me the bill."

"Very helpful."

"Always," He springs up. "Lesson two. The handshake. Firm, not crushing. One pump. No clammy apologies." He takes my hand before I can hide it and gives a single decisive shake. "Now you." I do it back, too quick. He gasps like a scandalized aunt. "Limp! I feel disrespected on a cellular level."

I laugh. "You're making this up as you go."

"Obviously. But you're laughing, which means it's working." He grins. "Lesson three. The walk."

"The what?"

"The Core Walk," he announces, as if unveiling a national treasure. He sets his shoulders back, lifts his chin a breath, and starts across the rug in a smooth, unhurried line. Long strides, eyes level, that bored-with-purpose face he does so well. "Observe, little one. No scurrying, no flinching, no corner-scanning. Float like you own the floor, even if it would repossess you on sight." I copy him. My feet want to hurry. My eyes want to check doors. "Shoulders down," he says, behind me now. "Chin level. Not up. Then you look arrogant. Not down. Then you look apologetic. Level. Good. Your eyes should glide. Count three beats on anything that tries to hook you, then let it go."

"Three is long." I mutter.

"Then two and a half," he says. "But never one. One looks like fear." By the time I turn back, heat pricks my cheeks. I feel ridiculous and, somehow, better. "Lesson four," he says, gentler. "Face."

"My face?"

"Your face," he confirms, tapping his own cheek. "Neutral but awake. Not a smile. Not a scowl. The 'I see you, and you're not a threat to my afternoon' expression." He demonstrates, mouth quiet, eyes alive. Easier on him than on me. "I don't have that." I say.

"You do," he says. "You've just been busy surviving." He gestures. "Try." I smooth my mouth, soften my eyes, focus past his shoulder like I'm watching something unimportant. He studies me. The corner of his mouth lifts. "That, actually," he says. "Hold it." He starts in with nonsense to break me. "Tragically, the Council has banned laughter," and "Anyone caught enjoying bread will be fined," and "Kael says he's taking up poetry." I crack at the last one, a laugh snorting out before I can stop it.

"Almost," he says, delighted. "Again." I hold it longer this time. He nods, pleased, then checks the invisible list in his head. "Lesson five. Speak like you belong." He lifts his hand, counting on his fingers. "Five words, no fillers, answer a guard who asks 'Purpose?'" My mind blanks. I grab something simple. "Visiting a friend for tea."

He beams. "That's four nouns and a dream. Approved. Add 'today' if you panic."

"Visiting a friend for tea today." I repeat, and it sits in the air like a small shield. It's silly. It helps anyway. He flops onto the couch, satisfied. "Graduation."

"That's it?" I ask, wary of a surprise exam.

"That's it," he says. "Bows, hands, walk, face, five words. Everything else is decoration."

"And if I mess up?"

He shrugs. "Then you mess up on purpose. That's confidence."

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The room feels less like a display and more like a place with air in it. "Again." he says, softer, and I bow once more.

A new voice cuts in. "Do I want to know?" Elara stands by the kitchen with a mug, braid over her shoulder, eyes taking in the scene. She sets the mug down with a quiet click and lifts one brow.

"It's not what it looks like. I don't even know what . . . This looks like." I say too fast.

"It's exactly what it looks like," Cassian says, cheerful. "I am a generous teacher."

Elara's mouth doesn't smile, but her eyes do. "Mm. Generous." She looks at me instead of him. "Shoulders down when you breathe. It reads calmer." I drop my shoulders a fraction. She nods, approves without a speech, and moves past us toward the hallway. "And Cassian?" she adds, not turning.

"Yes, Elara?" he says, too innocent.

"You're a syncling." She says dry, humor laced with it. He presses a hand to his heart in wounded silence. She disappears down the hall. We both listen to the last soft tap of her steps. Cassian exhales. "Terrifying," he whispers. "I adore her."

I snort. The laugh sits warm in my chest instead of rattling around. He pushes himself up and offers his hand again, palm up, a courtly gesture ruined by the glint in his eyes. "One last time," he says. "For the grade." I take his hand, steady, and give the proper shake. One pump. No apology. Then I step back, lift my chin level, and cross the rug in a line that almost feels like mine. When I turn, I find the neutral face without thinking.

Cassian watches, approval easy and unhidden. "See?" he says, softer. "You don't have to shrink to fit this place."

"I know." I say. It's not all the way true yet, but it sits better than it used to.

"Good." He flicks his fingers toward the kitchen. "Eat something. Confidence burns calories."

"That's not real." I say.

"It is now." He backs toward the doorway, walking his perfect ridiculous walk, then ruins it at the last second with a wink. "Goodnight, Caelis."

"Goodnight." I say softly.

When he's gone, the living room is still itself. Tidy, polished, too perfect, but it doesn't feel like it's waiting for me to fail. I sit again, not on the edge this time. I let my shoulders drop the way Elara told me to. I breathe in, count two and a half, and let it go.