Page 123 of The Devil May Care

And then the lights go out, but not completely. Every lantern. Every floating orb of light. Every enchanted spark or gentle flame that lit the hall just a second ago—snaps into darkness. And when they return, they are no longer warm. They burn with that same blackened edge I saw in Caziel’s magic. The color of memory. Of night. Of ash that still remembers the fire.

No one speaks.

Lyra Iskar is the first to move. She sets her spoon down carefully, as if the wrong noise might break something fragile. Her dark eyes shimmer faintly, like ink catching on a spell circle.

“Obsidian,” Elira says, voice barely above a whisper.

I stare at him. “What?”

“The trial,” he murmurs. “The Rite. It’s begun.”

Around the room, contenders start to move, some slow, some stunned. Caelthar, with the rings, curses softly in a language I don’t know. Malrik shoves to her feet, fists clenched, mouth a thin line of dread.

“What does that mean?” I ask again. “What’s the Obsidian trial?”

But Elira doesn’t answer. Not because he’s being cruel, because his gaze is fixed on the shadows now curling at the edge of each flame, and for the first time since I’ve met him, he looks scared.

The bell’s sound still hums in my ribs long after it fades. Everyone is moving now—benches scraping, trays abandoned, murmurs breaking into panic and purpose. The air tastes metallic, the way lightning smells before it hits. Shadows dart and blur as contenders head for the main corridor. I don’t follow. George is under the bench, tail puffed, eyes wide. He makes a small, uncertain sound—half hiss, half plea. My chest aches.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, scooping him up. “It’s okay, baby. You’ll be safe.”

I speed walk, keeping low through the crush of bodies until I reach the sleeping wing. My feels like it shudders when I dart inside. The air inside is cooler, quieter, like the rest of the world has been sealed out. I set George on the bed. He circles once, then curls tight into the blanket, watching me with wide gold eyes.

“I’ll come back,” I tell him, though my voice cracks. “Stay here. Please. And if I don’t—”find Caziel, not Varo. That’s what I want to saybut the words get stuck in my throat and when I turn, Caziel is already there.

He’s standing by the door, half-shadowed, one hand braced on the frame. I don’t even ask how he got in.

“The bell,” I say.

“I know.”

“The lights changed,” I go on. “All the flames—they went dark. Like you showed me.” He nods, jaw tight, but doesn’t meet my eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me it would be so soon?”

“Because I didn’t know,” he says quietly.

“You’re supposed to know.”

Now he looks up. And gods help me—he’s afraid.

“I thought we had more time,” he says. “The first trial wasn’t supposed to be called yet.”

“Then why—”

“I don’t know.” His voice cracks sharp, the closest I’ve heard to shouting. “Something’s shifted in the threads. I felt it. And now Obsidian is moving.” His jaw tenses, the edges of his form flickering in and out of focus. The room feels smaller suddenly. I can’t catch a full breath.

“I don’t feel ready.”

“You’re not.” It isn’t cruel—just true.

“I can’t fight,” I whisper. “Every part of me aches. I can’t do this. Even George doesn’t think I can.” My breath breaks, heat burning behind my eyes. “He ate breakfast with Varo,” I say thickly, tears burning at the corners of my eyes. And I’m pathetic this is pathetic. I’m a goddamn mess. No wonder everyone thinks I’m going to die. I can’t do this.

Caz’ expression flickers—barely a breath—but the way he steps forward is immediate. Like it matters. Like I matter. His arms come around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on.

“You can do this, Kay.” His voice is low against my hair. “You made it through yesterday. You will make it through this.” I don’t answer. I can’t.

He eases back just enough to look at me. “Fighting does not matter here. Not against grief. Not against memory. You already know that.” His hands tighten briefly on my shoulders. “All the training was just to give you something to hold on to. You can do this alone.”

I don’t answer. I’m afraid if I open my mouth again, I’ll scream or cryor both. Instead, I just look at him, and he looks back like I’m something he can’t undo. A thread already tugged loose.