Page 139 of The Devil May Care

“It’s responding to you,” Caziel says behind me, his voice low and sure.

I turn. The air hums between us, alive. “That’s not normal, is it?”

“No.” His eyes flick from the fire to me. “It’s not.”

The heat curls around my wrists like breath. “Is this because of the mark?”

He hesitates. “I thought so. After Obsidian, I was almost certain. But today,” his throat works, “today I watched it happen.”

“Watched what?”

“The fire remembers what moves it.” His gaze catches mine. “You made an impression.”

A nervous laugh escapes me. “That’s poetic. And terrifying.”

“It is.”

George leaps onto the ledge, curling beside the base of the flame. It bends toward me, subtle as inhalation.

“Does it do that for you?” I ask.

He’s quiet a moment, and when he speaks again his voice sounds raw. “Yes. But not like this.”

My breath catches. “What do you mean?”

“I have given myself to the Flame a thousand times,” he says, stepping closer, his heat brushing mine. “In battle. In blood. In sacrifice. I have felt it burn through me, but it never has it reached for me.”

The firelight flickers between us. I can feel his pulse in the air, in myown chest. He looks at me then—really looks—and something sparks under my skin. The pendant at my throat flares warm.

“Then what does it mean?” I whisper.

He exhales hard. “I don’t know,” he lies. Silence settles, heavy and bright. The flame steadies, breathing with us.

“You’re not ready to tell me,” I say.

“No,” he admits. “But the fire will. When the time is right.”

His hand drops, though the space between us still burns. And still—it leans toward me. And so does he.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CAZIEL

The summons arrives as a sealed flicker. No page, no ink, just a curl of emberlight that lingers at my shoulder like a warning. It flares once, gold-red, and vanishes. No words. Only a scent of scorched parchment and old decisions. Solonar wants to speak ahead of the meeting.Of course he does.The flame responded again. Reached again. And she—Kay—stood in its cradle without burning.

I glance toward the corridor where she disappeared moments ago, heading toward her quarters. George trotted at her heels, his tail brushing her calves like a tether to something real. She did not speak much after the Ember Chamber. Did not need to. The weight in her eyes said everything.

And still she stood and endured. Again.

The flame is noticing her. And now the others are too.

I hesitate. For a moment, I think of ignoring the summons. Of staying close. Of shielding her for a little longer. But that is not how the game is played. If I do not show, they will make assumptions. And assumptions in this court calcify into rumors, and rumors become knives. I cannot afford another blade at her back. I am too busy disarming the ones aimed at her throat.

The route to Solonar’s chamber winds deeper than most know. It is not an official meeting place, but that is why he favors it, subtle enough to avoid scrutiny, significant enough to send a message. The walls narrow as I descend. Veins of ember glow beneath the surface of therock like magma trapped beneath skin, casting warm light against the old digits carved into the stone. A flame script flares briefly under my palm as I pass—a security ward keyed to me. Another gesture meant to flatter, to suggest trust. Trust, I used to be sure of. But not anymore. Solonar has always spoken in riddles and put himself first. I would do well to remember so.

I knock once and push open the door without waiting for an answer. The chamber beyond is quiet. Intimate. The long obsidian table, polished to a mirrored gleam, reflects a constellation of flames from the overhead braziers. The air smells of charred lavender and something older, like ashes doused in oil.

Solonar sits at the far end, as if this were a diplomatic session and not the shadowed conversation it will be. Holding court over his own rooms and aspirations.