Page 121 of The Devil May Care

“Morning,” they murmur. Their voice carries the calm of a still lake.

“Is it?” My voice sounds rough in comparison.

A pause, then the faintest tilt of their head. “You slept.”

“Define slept.”

That earns the ghost of a smile. “Dreamed, then.”

I look down at my plate. “Something like that.”

They study me for a moment, not the way Caziel does, searching for strategy or strength, but like they’re tracing the shape of a ripple.

“You’ve been touched,” they say quietly. “The shadows remember.”

My throat tightens. “What does that mean?”

“The ring around your irises.” Their gloved fingers motion vaguely near their own eyes. “Not Flame. Reflection. Obsidian recognizes its own.”

Obsidian. The thread? I lift my hand as if I can wipe the evidence away. I’m not sure why, it’s not like Caziel would have broken any rules just to help me, right?

I force a shaky laugh. “That sounds ominous.”

Nyxen hums. “Only if you fight it.” Their silhouette softens, the air shimmering faintly where the torchlight meets their shoulder. “You see truth when others see light. That’s all the realm asks — to remember what was lost and not look away.”

Something in me stirs at that. The dream. The hum under my skin. The way Caziel’s magic flickered like it was breaking open, not apart.

“You talk like you’ve been there,” I say.

Nyxen’s gaze drifts toward the hall’s dark corners. “In a way, I never left.”

The warmth in my chest falters.

“That supposed to be comforting?”

“It’s supposed to be honest.” They rise, tray in hand, their outline already blurring. “Eat. You’ll need the strength. Obsidian doesn’t test what you can fight — only what you can carry.”

Movement across the hall catches my eye. Varo is halfway down the long table, boots on the bench rung, leaning back like he owns the world. I contain my eye roll, barely, because sprawled under his chair—George. My cat. Happy as a sun-warmed stone. Varo breaks off strips of dried meat and drops them one at a time. George bats, misses, pounces, wins. Varo smirks like he’s training a recruit.

I blink. “Why is my cat with the one person here who actively hates my existence?”

Nyxen doesn’t look up. “Varo doesn’t hate you. He hates effort. You take effort.”

“That sounds like hate.”

“George requires no effort. Varo respects efficiency.”

No effort? I’d like to see the man trim George’s nails or feed him his heart worm meds. I watch Varo flick another piece. George chirps. Varo leans down and scratches under his chin like they’ve done this before.

“Did he steal him?” I ask.

“No,” Nyxen says. “If Varo took something, you’d know. Someone gave him the cat. Or he volunteered.”

“Varo volunteered?”

Nyxen finally looks up, amused. “Maybe the cat picked him.”

George glances over, catches my eye, and meows likewhere’ve you been, slow human?This guy has snacks.Varo follows the cat’s line of sight, sees me, and lifts his chin in a lazy salute that manages to be both mocking and weirdly… respectful? I don’t know what to do with that, so I look away first. George is still curled under Varo’s bench like he owns the place. The dried meat is gone, and now he’s licking his paws while Varo sips from a dark ceramic cup, unreadable as ever.