Page 100 of The Devil May Care

“You’re not what I expected.”

He arches a brow. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Less caregiver, more fire and brimstone.” That gets a small huff of a laugh. His first real smile, faint but there. It changes his face in a way I can’t fully comprehend. I feel it like a punch to the gut.

“The brimstone is mostly imported from Gilded.” He shrugs and I bite my lower lip to halt my laugh.

I rest my fingers against the inside of my forearm. Even without looking, I can feel it, the mark humming beneath the skin. It’s still soft and warm, like it hasn’t finished sinking into my bones. I wonder if it will heal like a burn, like scar tissue, or if it will be smooth to the touch like my tattoos.

“You could have warned me the flame was going to hurt.,” I say and he flinches.

“It is not supposed to.”

“That’s comforting,” I swallow. “So, what happened to me?”

Caziel’s jaw tightens. He sits again—this time on the edge of the bed, far enough not to crowd me but close enough that I can see the worry behind his eyes.

“The mark rises on its own. There is no pain—only recognition. It is not a wound, but an understanding. A vow. Some Daemari choose to receive it in ceremony, pledging themselves to the Flame at coronationsor callings. The guard do, for example. But the Presentation is different. It is not about choice—it is the Flame’s right to answer or refuse. The first trial of the Rite. When I was called, the Flame reached for me, but I already bore its mark. It was little more than warmth. None of the others reacted as you did. You did not just receive the Flame, Kay. It forged itself into you—like it was carving a shape it had never known before.”

“Lucky me.”

He nods. “You are not Daemari. Whatever the Flame saw in you, whatever prompted its choice, my guess is it had to burn a path to claim it.”

I lean back against the headboard, heart thudding.

“What was supposed to happen?”

“You want to know what was meant to happen,” he says quietly. “You were supposed to stand before the Flame and be found wanting. That was the plan. My father dressed it up as tradition, but it was theatre—humiliation dressed in ceremony. When the Flame doesn’t answer, the mark never rises. Those Daemari are cast out, their names stripped from the rolls. Exiles. Ghosts in their own realm. It would have proved his point—that you didn’t belong here, that you were no threat to his line or his throne.” His voice roughens, a flicker of something dangerous breaking through the calm. “He never expected the Flame to choose you. None of us did. You weren’t supposed to survive that moment, Kay—you were supposed to be erased by it.” His voice goes rough. “But you endured more than anyone else ever has.”

I try to laugh, but it catches halfway in my throat. “Well, good. I’d really hate to die before the Rite gets a fair shot at killing me.”

His head snaps toward me, jaw rigid. “Don’t joke about that.”

I blink, startled by the intensity in his voice.

“I thought you were going to turn to ash right there in front of me,” he says, and this time it’s not sharp—it’s shaken. “There was a moment I didn’t think you’d come back at all.”

The words land heavy in my chest. I swallow hard.

“But I did.”

He meets my gaze. “You did.”

I shift, carefully, testing the boundaries of my body, and spot the mirror across the room. It’s tall, propped in the corner by the basin,angled too high to be useful. I half-rise from the bed and try to twist toward it, but all I manage is a blurry glimpse of my shoulder, a faint shimmer where the brand disappears down my back. It’s too far. Too sharp an angle. And everything still aches like I’ve run a marathon in someone else’s body. I make a soft sound of frustration and fall back against the mattress.

“I can’t see it.”

Caziel, still standing near the hearth, glances over his shoulder. “The mark?”

I nod. “I’ve felt it since I woke up. It’s like… it moves. Or breathes. I don’t know. I just—” I cut off with a breath. “I want to know what it looks like.”

He crosses to the mirror, adjusts it again. I try to follow the reflection but it’s hopeless. The glass only catches fragments—flickers of red-gold light when I move just right. Nothing complete. Nothing that feels real.

“I could draw it,” he offers, turning back to me.

My eyebrows rise. “You know how?”

“I’ve trained in anatomical sketching,” he says, matter of fact. “And glyph work. It’s part of my education.” He glances toward the desk near the window, scanning for ink and parchment, but after a moment of rifling through a drawer, he frowns. “Nothing here.”