Page 141 of The Devil May Care

Isaeth had been light and conviction, all sharp truths and quiet fury. She had tried to rewrite the rules of a world that punished her for existing, and it cost her everything. Kay… Kay is not trying to change anything. Not yet. She has no choice about the path before her. She is just trying to survive it and somehow, the flame keeps reaching for her anyway.

“She is not Isaeth,” I say tightly.

“No,” Solonar agrees. “But you are still you.” He lets that settle between us. Then, more softly, he adds, “You think protecting her is noble. But you’re not just shielding her fromthem, are you?”

I do not respond, because he is not wrong. I am shielding her from me, and pretending the reason is to protect her. That she needs all the help she can get, and if she knew the true me, the true shape of my form, she may just run.

Solonar sighs and gathers the scroll he had offered earlier, tucking it away. “You’ve never been good at watching things end.”

“I’ve gotten better at it.”

“I wonder,” he murmurs, “if you’ve simply stopped calling it love.”

I straighten. The emberlight in the room flares slightly around me, responding to the shift in my breath.Enough.

Solonar does not speak again, but he does not have to. He has placed the seed. Now he will wait to see if it blooms. Ever the consummate politician. He stands, walking around the length of the table. His fingers drum on the surface, his glamor fading out to reveal the stark lines of his own branding, the curve of his claws. The door seals behind Solonar with a hiss of old stone and ember-threaded wards. His words still echo at my back, but I do not flinch. Not here.

Only the light residue of wards and the faint scent of sealing oil linger in the air. They council will have come and gone already. They do not wait for me anymore. Not unless they need something, and this summons was not from the full council. Just Solonar. Another quiet test. Another quiet warning.

I stay standing, hands behind my back, gaze locked on the scorchedmap of the Seven Realms etched into the center of onyx stone table. Crimson at the center. Always at the center. And around it, the threats they claim to guard against. As if the greatest threat is not already inside the flame.

Solonar thinks I am blind. Thinks I do not see the way the Elders hedge their bets. The way Varo’s name is floated more often now. A golden, bitter son of Crimson who never bowed out, never gave up, never let his grief make him soft, but they have not seen what I have. They have not seen her. Have not truly looked.

My thoughts drift, unbidden, back to the Ember Chamber. To the way the flame had risen for her—toward her—like it knew her name in a tongue older than fire. And George. That ridiculous beast curling on the stone like it was his rightful throne.

They do not understand her. Not yet. And part of me still is not sure I want them to.

I press a hand to my chest, over where the embermark sleeps beneath the glamor. It pulses now and then, a low heat beneath my skin. Not just a mark. A vow. A scar.

Kay has not seen it.

She does not know about the way it spreads, harsh and alive, across my chest and throat, lacing up my face like fire frozen in time. She has not seen the horns I inherited from my father, or the tail I tuck away with effort so practiced it is nearly forgotten. At first, keeping the glamor up around her had been reflex. Habit. All Daemari shape themselves to some degree. It is like clothing, a way to signal what you are, who you mean to be. We hide our flame marks under magic and intrigue. Dropping that mask is reserved for private moments. Intimacy. Mates.

But now? Now it is something else. Now I hold it because I am afraid. Not of her. Of this fragile, tender thing we are building. Of what it might mean if she saw all of me and turned away. She already knows we are different. She is smart enough to understand the logistics, but understanding is not the same as looking me in the eye when the embermark flares and the flames whisper in a language no human tongue can mimic. Understanding is not touching the places that burn.

What if it is too late now? What if I have kept it hidden too long?

What if her trust has built itself around the mask, and removing it does not feel like honesty, but rather like betrayal?

I let my breath out slow and close my eyes. I survived war. I survived the death of Isaeth, the betrayal of my father, the weight of a kingdom that never cared, but I do not know if I can survive her walking away. That makes me vulnerable. That makes me dangerous.

A whisper stirs at the edge of my thoughts—one I have never been able to fully ignore.If you want to protect her, let her go.But I have done that once before. And I am still burning for it.

The Ember Hall is never truly empty. That is why it is the best place for me to go.

Even in the lull between council meetings, between trials, between dawn and dusk, it breathes. Slowly. Quietly. Like something that remembers fire not just as a weapon, but as a language. I linger near the high arches, just out of the light, cloaked more by habit than need. Conversations ripple in soft curls of sound from down the corridor. Familiar voices. Soft-footed messengers, aides without names, too careful to be caught speaking plainly. They do not notice me. They never do—until it is far too late.

“—Varo’s composure during the memory trial was unmatched. Of course he was chosen. He’s what the flame needs.”

“Captain Iskar proved her mettle as well. She also said the human girl survived, but she was pale as bone. Shaking. She won’t last much longer.”

“A pity. Still. It proves the Rite knows what it’s doing. It always does.”

“Your nephew came through respectably.”Someone else adds and it is Solonar who laughs.

“Malrik was honored with the brand, but Sovereign he is not.”

My teeth clench. They are already moving the narrative. Already sewing the silk threads of Varo’s coronation. I should have expected it. The Elders never wanted me to lead. They only wanted me as a symbol, a weapon their true heir could follow. And I gave them the perfect excuse when I stepped back. When I let myself burn instead of rule. But this twisting of the flame’s will? It is blasphemy.