Page 132 of The Devil May Care

“Both are physically unharmed,” he reassures, “But the mark did not take, and they are out of contention.”

I feel something sink in my chest.

“They stayed,” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer, but I already know. I force my eyes upward, pastthe names I don’t recognize, tracing the faint lines of light until I find mine. It glows. Dimmer than some, but not at the bottom.

My breath catches. I don’t speak. Caz does.

“The Rite does not care if you come out looking strong. It cares what you faced. Who you were in the fire. And you—” He cuts off. His jaw flexes. “You looked your grief in the eye. You did not hide from it. You did not numb it. You felt it. And you walked out with it still clinging to your bones.” He finally looks at me. “We, the Daemari, have all been taught to fight the pain. Our strength is in fending off the magic from the other realms. But you were honest. You let it exist. And the mark resonated. You showed it you could take it on and handle it just fine.”

“I didn’t even know I was allowed to do that,” I say, voice cracking.

“You weren’t,” he says. “And that’s why you’re still here.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

KAY

The barracks smell like polished steel and too many people pretending they’re not watching each other. I hesitate in the doorway for half a second, long enough to feel every stare land on me like a fresh bruise, then square my shoulders and step inside like I belong here.I do; I remind myself.Because I survived. Because I’m still marked. Even if I look like I got dragged back through memory by the throat.

No one says anything, but they do stare. A flicker of eye contact from Elira, a quick glance and look-away from Lyra tightening the strap on her left arm brace. Malrik actually drops a cup and doesn’t even bend to pick it up. I don’t know what I expected. Applause? Pity? No. Just something that didn’t feel like walking back into the aftermath of my own execution.

You didn’t die, I remind myself.You lived.

But I don’t feel like a survivor. I feel like a raw, exposed nerve walking around in scuffed boots.

Everyone else is already dressed in their practice leathers. They didn’t need to be dragged to the secret sanctum for validation. No one’s shaking. No one’s unraveling. Faces calm. Posture sharp.

Across the space, I catch Varo’s eyes. He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t sneer, either. He just watches me, measuring, like he expected something different to walk back through that flame and now he’s not surewhat he’s seeing. I can’t tell if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. His gaze lingers too long. I force myself to look away.

Two contenders are out. I am still here. That should be enough. Shouldn’t it?

“She cried,” someone whispers nearby. Too soft for me to see who.

“But she came back,” another voice replies. Not mocking, surprised.

The summons comes in the form of a chime. No knock. No messenger. Just a soft vibration in the walls and a flicker of light in the stones by the door. The Rite calls. You answer. Around me, the others are already at attention. Some adjust gloves, tie sashes, check weapons they aren’t supposed to need. No one talks. No one smiles and two bunks stay untouched behind us. The silence they left behind follows us out.

You survived once. Just survive again.But I haven’t even finished surviving this one.

The briefing chamber looks like someone carved an amphitheater into a mountainside and then lit it on fire. Polished black stone forms wide half-circles of seating that descend into a central floor, where a platform of scorched obsidian glows with a soft ember light. There’s no podium. Just heat and eyes. A pair of guards in red-glass waistcoats usher us in. The other contenders move without speaking. We all know better than to be late. I settle into one of the middle tiers, shoulders tucked in, trying not to wince as the burn across my back pulses in time with the firelight. No one sits directly beside me.

George isn’t here either. Probably sulking. Or stealing someone’s lunch. I envy him.

The chamber quiets as the Elder in charge of the Rite steps forward.

Captain Rehn drips in gold robes and molten-stone eyes. Her face looks like it was carved from stillness. She’s not the battle-hardened captain here, this is all ceremony.

“Contenders,” she begins, “the first Rite trial has concluded. Congratulations for coming out the other side.” Her voice carries without effort—low, melodic, unnervingly calm. “Eleven of you now stand marked by flame. Two were found unworthy of its bond. They have been removed from the rankings.” A ripple moves through the crowd. Not shock, confirmation. Everyone already knew. My stomach twists anyway. “The next trial will not be announced in advance. Be vigilant.” She pauses, let’s the silence stretch. Then, her eyes land directly on me. “To the firstwho faced the Obsidian Realm and emerged marked, your courage was witnessed.”

A dozen heads turn toward me. No one speaks. No one claps. The air tightens instead. Like the whole room just held its breath and doesn’t know how to let it go. Tense. Heavy. I hate it. I keep my eyes forward. Was that supposed to be gratitude? A warning? I’m not sure. A scroll appears on the wall behind her, etched in light like the Ember Ledger. Two names begin to fade. I don’t know either of them well, but I still feel something crack low in my ribs.

Gone.

Not dead but gone.

I glance down at my hands. They’re not shaking anymore. They feel wrong. Like they belong to someone else. Someone who didn’t over a hallucination. Captain Rehn steps back. The flame flares. The meeting is over, but no one moves until she’s vanished behind a column of smoke.