Page 108 of The Devil May Care

Captain Rehn gives the Ember Heir a nod and Caz steps forward.

“Circle up,” he says, and I frown. I thought he was training me, not all of us. It’s a dumb reason to feel jealous.

We move slowly. Warily. I’m still clutching my wooden blade, every muscle aching in time with my heartbeat. Varo wipes his mouth beside me, jaw clenched. I try not to grin. Someone chuckles quietly. Lyra watches everything, still as ever, and Caziel surveys us like a general inspecting the troops.

“You’ve all trained before. Fought before. Some of you have killed before.” His voice carries like steel being unsheathed—calm, final. “You know how to survive.” Then his eyes land on me. “But the Rite doesn’t reward survival. It demands something else.” He pauses long enough for the silence to stretch. “It demands truth.” There’s a shift in the air. Not tension. Something sharper. Like a line being drawn in flame. I feel it settle in me like a second heartbeat. Uneven. Strange. Right.

Caziel drops his hand.

“This is the Rite for the Throne of the Realm. Our most sacred of ceremonies. It is the true test of leadership. Who is fit to lead Crimson? Who is our next Asmodeus? Who is the one meant to lead this realm and all her people?” I almost miss the shift in his voice—subtle, but there. Less instructor, more… personal. He believes this. Every word.

“Each of you stands here because the Flame has not yet judged you unworthy. That is no small thing. The Rite is not meant to test your strength alone. Each trial will seek to break you—in body, in mind, in will. You will be tempted, torn, remade. Stay firm. Stay true. Resist. The Flame does not honor deception, nor does it pity the fallen. You are not here to impress me, nor the Elders, nor the crowd that hungers for spectacle. You are here to face yourselves. And when the last ember cools, it will not be your hands that decide who rises—it will be the Flame. There is danger in what lies ahead. But there is glory too, for those who endure it. Remember that when the fire comes for you.”

Then he turns and walks away. Just like that.

Captain Rehn claps her hands. “Break for water. Clean your weapons. Rotate pairs in thirty.”

The group scatters. But I stay there, in the center of the sand, heart pounding, Caziel’s words etched behind my eyes like brands of their own.

Truth. Want.

Two rules.

One shot.

No hesitation.

Lyra steps closer to me as I unlace my practice wraps. She doesn’t look up when she says, “Watch your feet, too.”

I blink. “What?”

“The ground shifts when we aren’t looking.”

She walks away and I let out a long breath.

Truth. Intention. And unstable terrain.

Great.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

KAY

By the time I limp back to my alcove, the sun’s lowered enough to throw long shadows across the barracks floor. I wish I had a curtain for my alcove, and debate hanging a sheet over my door, but I’m not sure how to hang it. And no one is paying me a lick of attention now anyway. Maybe privacy isn’t a big deal in Daemari culture? Not after a whole day together. George is already curled on the narrow mattress, snoring like he’s had the hardest day of all.

I sit on the edge of the bed and finally let the aches bloom. My ribs throb. My thighs are one long bruise. My shoulder screams every time I shift it wrong, which is always. I peel the practice tunic off and wipe at the sweat and grit. The flame mark on my back hums. It doesn’t hurt; it breathes. Like it’s waiting. Like it saw everything I did today and is still deciding if I was worth the effort.

“Truth and desire,” I mutter to no one. “Great. Simple. Terrifying.”

George blinks one lazy eye open, then closes it again as if to say get over it. I feed him a bit of dried meat from the rations in my trunk, then lie back, arm slung over my eyes. The silence buzzes. I can still hear Captain Rehn barking instructions outside. Metal on stone. Someone laughing. A blade being sharpened too close. The low murmur of conversation.

Then a knock against the door jamb. Soft. Deliberate. I sit up, startled.

“Come in?” I say, instantly regretting the upward lilt in my voice.Confidence, or something. I sit up to see Elira Voss stands there. He’s barefoot, ink-smudged fingers tucked behind his back, hair pulled half up, half loose. Violet streaks catch the last rays of sun.

“I’m not interrupting,” he says. It is not a question. Although it might be the first words he has said directly to me.

“No,” I say, brushing a hand over my tangled braid. “Just lying here, contemplating death and maybe a snack.”