Page 103 of The Devil May Care

“The barracks?” I echo, blinking.Were those on my realm tour?“So, I get a glowing back, and you kick me out of my fluffy bed?”

“You get a bunk, a footlocker, and a daily schedule designed to break your spirit.”

“Lovely.”

Sarai gives a watery laugh but wipes at her face again, trying to pull herself together. Her expression softens when she looks at me—still teary, still fragile in the way grief is fragile, but calmer now.

“And I wont’ see you again?”

I swear Caz has that disgruntled look again.

“You will, but Sarai is stationed at the keep and contact will undoubtedly be more limited.”

“I packed your things,” she says. “What little there was. Left the Ember-stained tunic folded separately, just in case you want it.”

“I’m not sure if I want to frame it or burn it.”

She stands, brushes her hands against her thighs. “There’s clothing in the locker. Standard issue. Nothing fits well, but you’ll look terrifying anyway.”

“High praise.”

Sarai smiles. Not a polite one. Not for show. A real, proud, sister-warm kind of smile that makes my chest ache.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she says softly.

“I seem to be making a habit of that lately.”

She hesitates like she wants to say more—but instead, she just nods. “I’ll try to visit when I can. Take care of her.” She commands the Daemari prince.

He answers without hesitation. “Always.”

And with that, Sarai slips out, closing the door gently behind her. The room goes quiet. The fire pops once, like punctuation. I sink back into the mattress, exhaling slowly.

“Guess this is real now.”

Caziel doesn’t move. “I’m sorry, Kay.”

I want to tell him it’s not his fault. I don’t.

“So,” I say finally, “what now? Is there an orientation packet? A pamphlet titledSo You’ve Been Claimed by Sentient Fire?Do I get a welcome scroll? Maybe a flaming dagger and a map to the nearest unmarked grave?”

Caziel turns his head slowly from the hearth, one brow lifting.

“That’s the first thing you want to know?”

I shrug beneath the blanket. “I figure if I’m officially part of the death tournament, I should know where the snacks are. I assume that info is in my orientation paperwork.”

A breath escapes him—somewhere between a sigh and the start of a laugh. He shakes his head and moves closer, the firelight outlining his profile like something carved from old myth.

“You will be escorted to the barracks after first meal,” he says. “You have been assigned a private bunk. There is a schedule in the footlocker—combat, realm study, weapons, endurance, strategy, history.”

“Wow,” I murmur. “So, it’s like grad school. But instead of debt, I might die.”

His mouth twitches. “That’s not entirely inaccurate.”

I tilt my head. “And how long until the first trial?”

“No more than a week. Less, if the court wants a show. The Flame can occasionally be persuaded to follow a schedule.”