Page 143 of The Devil May Care

Caz doesn’t flinch. “The others handled it.”

And there it is. My grip tightens on the staff. “We already know I don’t belong here”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No,” I hiss, “but it’s what you meant.”

Something cracks in him then—not loudly. Not like the roar I expect. Just a subtle break in that cool control. He leans in.

“You are here, Kay. Not because of luck. Not because of pity. You faced something no one else did, and you did not break. You chose to feel it.”

I look away, throat tight. “And I’m the only one still bleeding.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But that does not make you weak.”

“Then what does?”

He’s quiet for a moment, the silence between us full of fire. When he leans in again, each word breaks over my lips in a fan of heated air. “Thinking you have to carry it alone.”

Training ends without a declaration. No final round. No applause. Just a nod from Caz, and the tension that’s been coiled in my chest begins to ease. The others drift away, some chatting in low voices, others lost in their own thoughts. I stay behind, staff still in hand, George brushing against my ankles like he senses I need something to hold me in place. Or he’s hungry. Probably the latter.

“Walk with me?” Caz’s voice is soft. Not a command.

I nod.

George gives a grunt of protest, but follows, weaving around my boots. We walk in silence at first, through the outer corridor and down into one of the winding halls near the Ember Chamber. The light from the sconces always seems to flicker redder. Like the walls are breathing. I want to ask why we’re going this way. Tell him I really don’t need to see the mystical scoreboard again, but I can already feel the answer hanging in the air between us. Something has shifted.

He says nothing until we reach one of the quieter balconies that overlook the molten heart of the citadel. You can’t see the Flame directly from here—just the occasional pulse of light where the heat seeps through cracks in the stone. He turns toward me and holds out a small coil of shimmering thread.

I frown, but do not reach for it. “What’s that?”

“Last time I gave it without asking. I am offering now.”

It hums faintly in his hand, glowing. An ember stretched into a coiled line, wriggling like a caught worm, shimmering in shades of blue under the low light. Another thread.

I stare at it, throat dry. “What does this one do?”

“It’s grounding. Connecting.” He pauses, jaw tight. “A taste of what the next realm will offer. It’s not a command. Just an option. Use it or don’t.”

It’s a gift. But it’s also something else. There’s a weight behind the offer. It’s more than a token, more than an assist, but I doubt he’ll tell me why. His eyes are dark, unreadable. Caziel is always guarded, but something about this feels heavier. More vulnerable. Like he’s given uppretending he can keep me at arm’s length, but he’s still not ready to say why.

I look down at the thread and think the worst.

He’s giving up on me. He thinks I can’t do this without magical training wheels.

The thought slices through me, sharp and stupid. But it doesn’t manage to sink its teeth into me. That’s not who Caz is. I think of the sparring sessions. The endless patience. The way he stepped between me and everything that scared me when I didn’t even know I was afraid. The way he looked at me after the trial, not like I was broken, like I was still standing.

The thread twists between us. It shimmers faintly, silver-blue, like a blade carved from silence. I don’t ask how he got it, just like I didn’t ask last time. The Obsidian thread was brutal. It left me hollowed out and empty and aching, but it was nothing compared to the trial itself. Having a taste of what was to come… it was like peering through the keyhole of a locked door to see what’s beyond. Like shaking the Christmas presents under the tree to see if Santa came through. The discomfort now helps more than it hurts. I can’t separate out truth from illusion in the trial itself, if I don’t know what the shape of the lie feels like. And already this threadfeelsdifferent. Quiet. Personal. Less horror and grief.

“Cobalt?” I guess and he nods. “For the next trial?” I wonder if it brings up memories for him. Bad ones he’d prefer to bury. The war, his lover, I wonder if he wishes he could forget every awful piece.

“You don’t have to use it,” he says. “But it’s better to meet the realm halfway than be caught off guard.”

The thread pulses once, faint as a heartbeat. I feel it call to something cold inside me, something I haven’t let myself name. I reach out, slowly, then hesitate. My hand hovers inches from the thread. I’m not afraid of pain, I feel ready, but this small act of offering means he’s scared for me. Caziel. The one who never flinches. And if he’s scared… I glance up and he’s watching me, carefully unreadable, but I’ve learned the lines of his mask. Behind it there’s tension. Ache.Please take it,his silence says. So, I do.

The moment my fingers close around the thread, something shifts in me. Like stepping from solid ground onto black ice. My pulse slows. Mythoughts sharpen. And a sliver of fear slides clean through me. I’m not sure if it’s mine or if it belongs to the thread. It coils lightly in my palm now. No brighter than breath, but impossibly heavy.

“I—,” I cut myself off, unsure what to say. “—thank you.”