Page 106 of The Devil May Care

His mouth tightens. “Sure enough to make it so.”

The answer makes my heart kick up in a galloping rhythm. I swallow the lump in my throat.

He steps back, motioning ahead of him with one strong hand. “Go on.”

I don’t hesitate or look back. I cross the threshold. Eyes turn. Conversations pause. I feel the air shift around me—not fear, not quite hate. Like something waiting to see what shape I will take. Behind me, Caziel doesn’t follow, but I can feel him watching. And for some reason, that helps. He’s proud of me. I know it.

The barracks swallow sound the moment I step into the courtyard, like the outside world is muted. No echo, no draft, just a low ambient heat that seeps from the walls the way steam seeps from fresh bread. The main hall is wide enough to ride a war-beast through, but it’s broken by pillars and half-curtained alcoves, each marked with a faintly glowing rune. From the ceiling, chains of black iron dangle emptyhooks where lanterns used to be. Now the light comes from thin braids of flame that snake along the ceiling joists, pulsing red gold each time someone passes beneath.

I keep my stride even, satchel snug against my ribs.

Left side, second alcove—Caz’s instructions ring in my head like they’ve already been carved there.

Lyra Iskar stands a few paces inside, arms folded, weight balanced on the balls of her feet the way dancers rest between sets. She doesn’t speak, just tips her chin. A nod. Acknowledgment, not greeting. It’s enough. I return it, then move on.

A trio of contenders repair practice spears near the hearth and I recall their names from the flame situation: Sevrik, smile bright enough to burn the dust motes, Rhovan, brooding and scowly even from a distance, and Caelthar with the gold rings, working the shaft of a spear like it personally insulted his mother. None of them pause their hands, but they all watch me—quick flashes of eye, little hitches in breath, as though I’m a knife being unsheathed mid-sentence.

I don’t let my shoulders hunch. I count alcoves. One, two, mine is the last one.

A rune flares the color of hot coal when I step in front of the lintel. There’s no curtain or door, but the room is L-shaped with a narrow bunk carved directly from the cliff face just out of sight. There’s a storage chest at its foot, and—of course—George, immediatley sprawls full-length across the mattress like he paid for the real estate. His tail flicks once when I follow him in, but he doesn’t move. Typical.

I drop the satchel and crouch to scratch behind his ears. He squints at me, yawning so wide I can see the tiny black freckles on the roof of his pink mouth. Eventually he hops down, sauntering to the footlocker as if to inspect the craftsmanship

“Make yourself at home,” I mutter.

No reply but a rumbling purr.

I peer out of the doorway into the hall. Varo lounges against the center table, one boot on the bench, flipping a dagger between clever fingers. Each rotation glints firelight along the edge. When his gaze meets mine, the corner of his mouth lift. It’s not a smile, more a personal joke he’s not ready to share. I give him nothing in return, hoping he’ll drop the knife and embarrass himself. The blade’s rhythmstutters once before he looks away, but he keeps it under control. Elira sits cross-legged on his bunk, shoulders rounded, scribbling in a battered notebook. The quill scratches steadily as if he’s pouring out one continuous line of thought. Every so often he glances up, cataloguing something only he can see, then bends back to the page.

At the far wall, Nyxen Vale dismantles and cleans a gauntlet with surgeon precision. They never turn their head yet seem preternaturally aware of each person who passes behind them. I file that away for safekeeping. Lyra, having drifted closer, starts unwrapping new practice blades from oiled cloth. She catches me looking, meets my eyes. There’s curiosity there, but no invitation. Just awareness—an acceptance that we both watch because we can’t afford not to.

I step back into my room. Inside the alcove, quiet swells like held breath. My pulse finally slows enough to hear it. Allowed, not welcomed. That’s the temperature in here. Warmer than hatred, cooler than fellowship. They don’t know what I am to them yet—threat, pawn, anomaly—so they slot me in the one space they reserve for mysteries: observe now, decide later.

Fine. I can live with that.

I open the storage chest. Uniforms dyed charcoal and edged in crimson sit stacked beside a sealed tin of salve and a rolled scroll. It’s a schedule, crowded letters marching down the parchment—dawn drills, midday lectures, evening evaluations. It feels like a sentencing. But every name has the same ink. Equally doomed, equally obligated. It’s either written in my home tongue, or I can somehow parse the words. I’m not sure which option leaves me more unsettled.

George leaps back onto the bed, circles twice, settles with a thump, and butts his head against my hip. I scratch behind his ears, more for me than him.

“Truth or hesitation,” I whisper, recalling Caz’s rules. “One keeps me alive; the other kills me.”

George blinks, unimpressed.

Footsteps pass outside, heavy, deliberate. Voices murmur. No one peeks in. No one needs to. They all know exactly where I am, and for the first time since the Trial I feel the full weight of being known. I square my shoulders, lift the uniform, and start changing. Flame chose me, Realms lie, but I will not be cowed. My schedule lists training, but Ihave no way to tell time. I follow the others out of the barracks because I don’t know what else to do.

They move with purpose, in pairs or small clumps, like they’ve been through this routine a hundred times already. Maybe they have. I keep to the edge of the path, chin up, spine straight, trying to project something like confidence. Or at least competence. George trails behind like a ghost, uninterested in the drill pit ahead.

“You could have stayed behind,” I tell him, but he ignores me.

I’m already sweating by the time we get to the training rings. Crimson heat clings to everything here—even the shade. The training ground is a stepped pit carved into the rock just beyond the barracks, with sun-scorched sand and a half-circle wall that catches every sound and throws it back like a challenge. Despite the stone bleachers there is no audience. Just contenders. Just us.

The instructor, Captain Rehn, is a thick-set Daemari with hair like braided copper wire and a voice like a thunderclap. She paces the outer ring like a wolf waiting for weakness.

“You’ll pair off. Practice only. But I expect blood.” She scans us like we are tools, not people. “We learn faster when it hurts.”

I cannot tell if she means that metaphorically.

“Training blades or staffs only,” she continues. “No killing, no magic, no posturing. You are not enemies. The Rite will decide your fates individually. Your job is to survive until then—and maybe survive after. The best way to do that is to learn from each other.”