Page 114 of The Devil May Care

I told her I would give her her freedom. One day. It wa a vow and I meant it. My father knew and he did not object, not aloud. Just warned me not to cause a stir. “Not now,” he said. “Not with war looming. Let the Flame quiet first. Let the realm settle.” Then we could talk about legitimacy, about choices. About mates and bonds and forever after. I was young enough to believe that. Stupid enough to trust him.

When I left for the front lines, I asked her to bond with me anyway. I wanted my soul tied to hers and I was cocky enough to know I would come back alive. I did not think I would come back broken. None of us did. The camps were nothing like I had pictured. It was not the laughing camaraderie of the training barracks. It was not the celebration of a resounding victory. It was dirt and ash and blood. It was the smell of charred innards strewn across the cracked ground. It was fighting wraiths and hallucinations, trying to burn the false images to nothing as Cobalt wove their magic around us. There was no beauty, no glory, not in a single moment spent there. And then I got her letter.

There’s a group of us being dispatched to the camp. There’s need for healers and I want to do my part for peace. I’ll find you when I arrive.

She never did.

I wrote her. Nothing.

I wrote my father. Silence.

I nearly left my post. Varo stopped me, reminded me we were stretched thin, that the realm would crumble if I abandoned command. So, I sent scouts. Then more. Then one last party. The rest of the group arrived at the camps and Isaeth never did.

I had never met Sarai before that day. Her voice shook when she gave me the news. “Taken,” she said. “By Cobalt. From the Wastes.” But the wastes were the opposite direction. No need for the party or traverse their treacherous desolation. I remember standing in the mud, not feeling the cold. Just blank. My guts torn out, twisted until I was an empty shell.

My sword hand clenched. I could not breathe right.

“She would not have gone alone. Not to the Wastes.”I had protested. They were not considered safe for the Vesperan.

Sarai nodded, eyes wide. “No, my Lord,” she had agreed.

I returned to Crimson. Demanded answers. My father said she was gone. Before the party had left the keep. She had gone out the wastes for reasons unknown and never returned, Cobalt’s signature in her wake. That there had been an attempt at rescue, but not in time. He did not tell me sooner because I could not afford to be distracted.

“Isaeth was a servant,” he had said, like that explained everything. “Sheknew her place. She understood the cost of war.”

He was wrong.

“She was mine,” I said.

He only shrugged. “And now she’s part of something greater. She died for her people.”

That is when I walked away. I have not worn that uniform since. Not even now.

The memory breaks like ash against my ribs. I scrub my palm down my face, trying to shake it off. I should not still feel this way. Should not still be this raw. Something itches against the back of my skull. A question, bleeding away at the edges. Something I am missing. Something I cannot afford to mistake. Not this time.

I walk the edge of the courtyard, slow, measured steps to match the rhythm of my thoughts. I tell myself I am just thinking about strategy. About what she still needs to learn. But all I see is her—bracing under Varo’s weight, messy in her form, but refusing to back down.

She is not Isaeth.

But for the first time in years, I am afraid of losing someone again. Isaeth believed the Realm could be better. That we could be better. She had convictions sharp enough to carve kingdoms, but she was gentle where I was cruel. She was never meant to be part of my world, not truly. She was Vesperan. Flame-less. Powerless. Bound by laws older than our stones.

That was my sin. Not the love. Not the hope. The orders. I stopped the blind obedience when she died. I stopped playing my father’s games. I also stopped asking questions. I left it at that. The pissy pouting Prince, sleepwalking through life to make a point. And now… now Kay stands in the same citadel. Wearing my tunic. Bearing the mark of the Rite. She burns like Isaeth never could.

She does not belong here. She should not have to fight to be seen. To be remembered. But if she must fight, she will not fight alone. Varo does not understand. He thinks I walked away because I was weak. Because I lost something precious and could not stomach the aftermath. But it was not grief that broke me. It was the realization that the glory I fought for was not real. That the realm I bled for had no memory of the people it sacrificed.

We do not win wars. We just survive them.

If we are lucky. And luck has teeth.

The training fields are empty now, dusk bleeding soft violet into the sky. I stand at the edge of the ring where she fought. Where she did not fall. She is inside. Eating, maybe. Or sleeping. Or pacing in that too-small alcove they have assigned to her until she earns something better. She should have broken today. Her form was terrible, her footwork all over the place, and her stamina barely carried her through. But she did not break. That matters. It means she can be taught.

I should not be here. Watching. Thinking. Feeling. She is a contender, like the rest. A complication. One I chose when I fetched her in the Wastes. And again, when I did not let go. Or maybe it was never a choice. Maybe it was fated. Maybe the Flame drove us toward each other, pulling her here. Into this world. Because it was always meant to be her.

I tell myself I am only here because I want her to live. That is all. Survival. She does not need to win. Someone else will, probably Varo, orLyra, if she decides she wants it badly enough. But Kay? No. Not this time. The realm would not accept her. The Rite would eat her alive if I gave it the chance. So, I will not.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

KAY