Page 142 of The Devil May Care

They speak as though the trials are performance, as though the choice belongs not to the Flame, but to the council. It explains why they ignore her, Kay, as though the Flame is not reacting to her.

My pulse hitches, shame rising. Have I not done similar? She didsurvive, but she is still shaken. Still reeling. Her pain clings to her like smoke, and she has not yet realized that it makes her real in a way no contender ever has been before her. In a way one may never be again. It is her humanity that makes her real, and what am I doing? Shielding her. Teaching her. Helping her survive, but not how to win. Not to rule.

Because that was never the plan.

Let her live. Let her escape. Let her go. I never let myself imagine a version of this where she might make it to the end. Where she might deserve to take the throne. A flicker of heat unfurls beneath my ribs. It is not enough anymore. Keeping her alive is not the only thing that matters. The one who should rule this realm is not the one who performs best in the ring or nods most easily to the Elders. It is the one for whom the Flame continues to rise.

But what would that mean? What would it look like to fight for her, not just beside her? To push her not toward survival, but toward sovereignty?

The voices fade and I step into the empty stretch of corridor, alone again. The Embermark beneath my glamor thrums with something I cannot name. And for the first time, I wonder: If I do everything in my power to help her live, will she resent me for not doing more?

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

KAY

Iwake up disoriented by the dark until I realize I have a scroll draped over my eyes. I must have fallen asleep reading. My limbs ache like I spent the night clawing my way out of stone. I guess, in a way, I did. George curls into the hollow of my ribs, his fur warm and steady against my bare skin. He’s purring like nothing is wrong. Like I didn’t just crack open the worst memory of my life and bleed it across a stage made of ash.

I should get up. I don’t. The others will be rising soon, washing up, wrapping their arms in training leathers like none of it touched them. Because it didn’t. I’m the only one it got its claws into. I was the only idiot who didn’t fight the memory, who didn’t know to anchor herself out of it. The Flame has to be wrong. It’s a mistake that I made it through.

The pillow smells like old incense and dust. Not like my world. Not like the waiting room where I sat after the accident. Not like the cat carrier that held George during every move, every shift, every stupid clinic internship where he slept on my feet and made me feel like something mattered.

I press the heel of my hand against my sternum. Right where the pendant rests. It’s warm again. Humming. Like the thread of flame that curled around me in the trial is still there, tucked under my skin, waiting to be remembered. Maybe it didn’t leave me behind, but it still hurts. And I am getting damn tired of hurting.

George stretches, claws delicately pricking my side. His golden eyes open just long enough to give me a look that says, Well? You going to keep sulking or are we going to breakfast? I sigh and nudge him gently.

“You’re a menace,” I whisper, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “But you’re my menace.”

I’m the last to arrive. Thanks to my lazy wake-up, but even with ten sets of eyes boring into me, I can’t bring myself to regret it. George is going to be pissed that the morning meal has been cleared. The others are already spaced across the training floor. Someone marked chalk symbols I don’t yet understand in a rough circle. Emberlight trickles through the open arches, catching on the dust in the air, turning every movement into something holy or haunted.

Caziel is already directing paired drills—threshold maneuvering, I hear him call it. Combat within liminal space. Fighting in close quarters, with magic active but restrained. He said it mimics the sensation of being pressed between realms. Like breathing fire underwater. I’m barely holding myself together and now I’m supposed to fight in metaphor.

I scan the others. Elira Voss is sparring with the silver-eyed contender, Rhovan, sweat beading down their necks, each movements fluid and fast. Lyra Iskar is moving like a storm, her staff sweeping with rhythmic control. Even the quiet contenders, Kaelen and Nyxen, near the eastern wall seem composed. Steady. They don’t look like they were gutted yesterday. They don’t look like they’re still hearing the echo of their mother’s voice in a hospital room that never existed. Varo leans casually against a stone pillar, one arm resting across his midsection. He’s watching the matches, sure—but when my footsteps echo too loud on the stone, his gaze flicks to me. Lingers.He doesn’t smirk this time. Doesn’t say a word.

The staff rack is to the left, freshly stocked. I reach for one and feel its weight settle into my palm like an accusation. I join the circle, slotting into an open space.

Caziel doesn’t even glance over. He’s speaking low to Lyra, guiding her form with one hand, correcting her elbow angle. He’s neither harsh nor coddling. It’s the kind of voice I remember from clinic professors who actually cared if you passed. When he finally walks toward me, it’ssilent. Measured. He stops in front of me and holds out a smooth, wooden staff. The tension between us crackles. I take it.

He moves into position but doesn’t speak. No warm-up. No adjustment. Just begins the sequence. The same one I watched him demonstrate for the others: brace, sweep, feint, pivot, anchor. I do my best to match him. But my feet are half a second behind. My right arm falters during the feint. My left hip twists too shallow in the anchor. He doesn’t say a word. Just resets. Does it again.

I follow. Again. And again.

By the fourth time, I’m panting. “If you’re going to teach me, then teach me.”

His expression doesn’t shift, but his posture sharpens—just a hair. “You know the form.”

“I watched the form.”

“You have done it before.”

“Not like this.”

He steps forward, his presence taking up all the space between us. His voice drops. “You’re waiting to feel normal again.”

“Of course I am,” I snap. “I’m still not convinced I wasn’t ripped apart yesterday.”

“That’s the point,” he says. “This drill mimics realm instability. When you are not centered, the threshold seizes on it. It warps your footing. Your mind. It will try to make you believe you are somewhere else—someone else.”

“Oh good,” I mutter. “More hallucinations.”