Page 136 of The Devil May Care

“It isn’t about stamina—or pain.” His gaze flicks toward the brazier, where the air still wavers from the last test. “The Flame doesn’t care how long you last. It’s will. You can posture all you want, but if there’s nothing at the heart of you—nothing you want or need more than it hurts—you won’t hold it. It’ll snuff you out.”

I swallow, my throat tight. “And if I do have something?”

He exhales through his nose. “Then it’ll hurt worse.” His hand drops away. “You shouldn’t even try.”

For a heartbeat, I almost don’t. The air feels heavy, full of ash and warning. Caziel stands ahead, flame alive again in his palm, its light cutting through the dusk like a heartbeat. He doesn’t look impatient—just watchful. Waiting. And maybe that’s the point. Not about proving Varo wrong, or anyone else. Maybe it’s about seeing what’s left of me when there’s no one left to tell me who I am.

The flame leaps from Caziel’s hand to mine before I can second-guess it. I brace for pain—real, blistering pain—the kind that sears down to marrow like the first time I faced the Flame. My breath locks in my chest, shoulders tensing for the strike, but it doesn’t come.

The heat blooms, yes, but not as agony. It spreads through me like something alive and curious, tracing the map of my pulse, my ribs, my heart. It feels me out, pressing at the places I’ve hidden, the cracks I thought I’d sealed. It isn’t cruel. It’s consuming. Every thought, every defense, every ounce of defiance burns away until all that’s left is the quiet, trembling truth of me.

My vision swims. The edges of the arena blur, light and sound folding in on themselves. My knees want to buckle, but I can’t feel my body enough to fall. It’s not pain I’m drowning in—it’s emptiness. The flame drinks deep and leaves me hollow, drained in a way that feels almost merciful.

When it finally withdraws, the fire doesn’t die so much as slip back into the air, leaving my skin unmarked but my veins singing. I’m breathing hard, dizzy, but I’m still standing. Barely.

When it finally gutters out, smoke curls between my fingers like a secret. My hand is shaking. My heart isn’t. Caziel hasn’t moved. His hand lowers slowly, the last wisp of flame coiling through his fingers. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—dark, steady, impossibly bright—find mine. For a heartbeat, they soften. Something like recognition passes between us, too brief to name. Then it’s gone.

“Next,” he says, voice smooth again, the Flame’s echo still threaded through it.

But even as I step back into line, the heat lingers in me—not a wound, not a burn, just a quiet, aching proof that it saw me. The others don’t speak to me. They don’t look at me. But I can feel their eyes. Not like before when they were waiting for me to fail. Now they don’t know what to make of me. And neither do I.

I don’t run, but I do stride off with purpose. Maybe if I look like I know what I’m doing, or where I’m going, no one will follow me. I take the stone steps up from the arena, ducking into the covered walkway that rings the top. The stone floor is cooler in this corridor, hidden in the shadow of a forgotten colonnade. I fold myself into the alcove with my back against the wall, arms wrapped around my knees. My trainingrobes are damp with sweat and the mark still thrums along my spine, a low, molten hum that hasn’t quite faded.

I’m not crying. Not exactly. Just… trembling. Quietly unraveling at the seams. The ache isn’t just physical, it’s everything. Grief, exhaustion, confusion. I curl tighter around myself.

It was just training.

Just pressure.

Just fire.

Just more of the same shit I’ve been surviving for however long I’ve been here.

So why do I feel like I left something behind in that ring?

A faint chirrup cuts through my thoughts. Then the soft tap of claws against stone. George rounds the column like he’s been searching for me for hours. He doesn’t run, he strolls. Regal, deliberate, and absolutely unimpressed with my condition. His tail curls high as he climbs into my lap and headbutts my chin.

“Hey,” I whisper, voice rasping. “Guess I passed the smell test.”

He sniffs the edge of my sleeve and settles with a thump across my thighs, warm and heavy. Like a sandbag pinning me to the present. The tremors in my hands still.

George purrs, deep and loud and insistent, like he’s trying to drown out every cruel thing I’ve ever thought about myself. I let my head fall back against the wall. Close my eyes. Breathe just once. The air tastes like stone and heat and the memory of flame but also fur and safety and something stubborn enough to find me no matter where I run. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until George stretches across my lap and lets out a contented little sigh, his weight grounding me like a stone in deep water.

The hallway is dim and quiet—one of the unused colonnades beyond the arena—but even here, the silence listens. The stone holds the memory of heat, the ghost of flame. Footsteps interrupt it. Soft, uneven. Slower than a patrol. I tense instinctively as a figure rounds the column.

She’s tall. Slender. Silver-threaded hair pulled back in braids that fray at the edges. Her tunic is rumpled and her expression still scraped raw from whatever she just faced. Sevrik Thorne. She reminds me of a fox. Playful, but unpredictable. She blinks when she sees me. Or—no, not me, George. Her eyes widen.

“What is that?”

Her voice is hushed. Not fearful. More baffled awe.

I blink. “He’s a cat.”

She blinks back. “An ember kitten?”

There’s a beat where I just stare at her, unsure if she’s joking. Then I realize she’s serious. These Ember Maw beasts must have done a real number on the realm.

“No,” I say slowly, we’ve been here before. “He’s just a regular cat.”