Page 112 of The Devil May Care

“I know,” he says. “You’re nothing alike.”

It stings more than I expect. But before I can flinch, he adds—

“She moved like a sword stroke. Clean. Precise. You’re… a wildfire. Fierce. Uncontrolled. Brilliant in your own chaos.”

I exhale, feeling the stirring tendrils of heat in my gut. “Is that a compliment?”

His mouth twitches. “It’s a problem.” He sits finally, not across the room but close. George stirs on the blanket between us but doesn’t move. “She died believing we could fix this Realm,” he says. “That if enough of us stood up, the flame would stop being used as a leash.”

“Maybe she was right.” I look down at my hands. I’m not sure I’m allowed an opinion here, this isn’t my home, and the Flame isn’t my… whatever it is.

“She was,” he says. “And it got her killed.”

Silence again. But this time, I let it settle. I let the grief breathe.

“Does it scare you,” I ask after a while, “that the flame marked me?”

He swallows hard. “It surprised me. The Realm noticed you the same way it did her. And I do not know what scares me more,” he says. “That it did, or that I understood why.” When he turns to face me, the look in his eyes is haunted. “I cannot stand by again and do nothing. I refuse.”

His voice is lower now. A confession. “The moment it took you, I knew what it felt.” I meet his eyes. “It saw a threat,” he says. “And a possibility.” Caziel stands, adjusting his cloak. “Get some rest. It will help with the aches.” He pauses at the door, but doesn’t turn, leaving me to stare at the tousled strands of his dark hair. His glamor shifts, fuzzing around the edges. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “Isaeth would have liked you.” And then he’s gone. Leaving behind only the flicker of the lamp and the weight of things that burn but don’t quite kill you.

I stay frozen for a while. Breathing. Listening to the echo he left in the room, like his voice clung to the walls and refused to follow him out. George shifts and nudges his head beneath my hand, and I scratch behind his ear without looking.

She would have liked you.

The words replay, echoing through my body like a vibration, sticking to my sore ribs. I’m jealous of her. God, how stupid is that? I’m jealous of a woman who died. A woman who believed in things. Who walked into fire with her spine straight and her voice soft and unwavering. Who was chosen—not just with words, but with a kind of loyalty that still shakes a man like Caziel years later.

It’s not even really about him. Not just him. It’s about being remembered like that. Held like that. Kept like that. It’s about the way he said her name like it was carved into him. Like she never left, not really. I’ve never been someone anyone kept. I’ve been convenient. Or pleasant. Or useful. Something to lean on in crisis, to lighten the load, to smile and fix and please. I’ve never been someone’s first choice. I’ve never been a priority. Not since the accident.

Maybe that’s why I’m scared of being erased, even as I do my best to let it happen. Because part of me already has been. Bit by bit. Until I don’t even recognize the girl who once believed she could do something that mattered. I glance down at George, who’s curled against me like I’m his entire world. Who didn’t leave, even when I smelled like fire and pain. He’d trade me for a piece of cheese without a second thought.

“I don’t want to disappear,” I whisper to him.

For the first time in my life, I want to push back. To fight. To do something with the time I have. I don’t want to be Isaeth. I don’t want to be a martyr or a memory or a ghost someone—anyone—grieves through gritted teeth.

I want to be here. Fully. Loudly, if I can manage it. Even if my voice shakes. Even if I’m not brave yet. Even if I’m not fire. I want someone to look at me and see me. And decide I’m worth choosing. Not because I’m useful. Or safe. Or convenient. But because I’m me. And that’s enough.

Even if I still have to work on believing I deserve it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CAZIEL

The stone beneath my boots is worn smooth from centuries of footfall, but tonight it feels sharp underfoot. I should leave—should get out of my own head and return to the keep before anyone starts whispering about the Ember Heir sulking outside the contenders’ hall, but I do not move. The barracks door creaks open behind me, wood groaning against old hinges. I know the gait without turning. Confident. Loose. Like everything in the world still belongs to him.

“Didn’t think I’d find you lurking like a wraith,” Varo drawls. “Have the shadows become your new court, or is that just for show?”

I glance at him over my shoulder. “Varo.”

“My Lord,” he answers with a smirk, stepping forward until we stand shoulder to shoulder, staring out across the training fields bathed in dying torchlight. “You always did prefer brooding exits.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed your permission to walk somewhere.”

“No, not permission. Just… strange. Seeing you here.” He gestures toward the barracks with his chin. “Checking up on your little firebrand?”

I exhale slowly. “She survived.”

“She barely stood.”