Page 105 of The Devil May Care

“You’re walking me in like a prized goat,” I murmur.

Caz doesn’t laugh. “Not a prize.”

“Ouch.”

“A disruption.”

Something molten rises in my veins. “Oh, good. Love being a category.”

Still no smile. Just the steady beat of boots on sun-warmed stone.

After another dozen steps, he says, “You want to survive?”

I glance over. “Bit late for that question.”

He stops. So, I stop too. He turns to face me, finally, and there’s something cold in his expression. Not cruel. Just… calculated. Like he’s measuring whether to hand me a sword or walk away.

“The rules,” he says. “First: always tell the truth...”

I arch a brow. “That’s your survival advice?”

“…because the Realms lie.”

The words fall between us like a drop of molten metal. Immediate. Final.

He watches me absorb it, then adds, “Second: go for what you want.”

“Hesitation costs.” I finish.

He blinks. Not in surprise—just in acknowledgment. “Good.”

I roll my eyes. “You gonna tattoo that on me too?”

“No,” he says. “The mark and your other pictures are enough.” He keeps walking. I follow.

The hill crests faster than I expect, and suddenly the barracks are right there, rising out of the slope like they were carved from the bones of the realm itself. The walls are dark stone, streaked red where heat has glazed the surface, like something half-melted and reforged. It doesn’t look like a building so much as a creature that learned how to stand still. An open courtyard spreads wide beneath a massive awning of interlaced metal and flame glass. It throws a shimmer of red-gold light across the ground, fractured and alive. Even from here I can see figures moving beneath it—sparring, circling, blades catching the light like veins of fire. The sound drifts up in pieces: steel striking, breath, the low thrum of power.

Past the courtyard, a long hall opens wide—tables and benches scattered with scrolls, half-eaten bread, empty cups. A place that smells like ink and spice and exhaustion. It’s all open—no doors, no curtains—just archways along the sides leading into smaller rooms. Each entrance isframed in faintly glowing script, soft as candlelight. Private spaces, maybe. Or at least as private as this place allows.

The whole structure hums. Not with magic exactly, but with purpose—heat radiating from the stones, the kind that seeps into your bones whether you want it or not. I can feel it even from here: the weight of what waits below. Training. Watching. Testing. It’s beautiful in a brutal sort of way. And as I look down at it, I realize—this isn’t a home. It’s a crucible. Contenders linger in the open—some stretching, some sharpening weapons, some just watching me.

Caz slows as we near the others.

“You’ll have your own space. Keep it tidy.”

“Yes, sir,” I mutter, just to see if he flinches. He doesn’t.

“You’ll receive a schedule by nightfall. Rotating drills, realm theory, evaluations. Everyone is watched, but you’ll be watched harder.”

“Because I’m human?” I want to tell him his people are idiots. I have no intention of winning anything, just surviving, so they should be looking for their future ruler. I don’t.

“Because you’re unknown.”

I lift my chin. “You still my mentor, then?”

“I am.”

“How sure are you?”