Page 147 of The Devil May Care

When he does, his voice is ice.

“I was wrong about you.”

I blink. “What?”

“You’re not ready,” he says. “You never were. You’ve been coddled and shielded, and the flame doesn’t see you because there’s nothing to see.” Each word is slow. Precise. Meant to wound. “You’re not special. You’re not ready. You don’t belong here.” Each word slices clean and clinical. “The flame doesn’t see you. No one does. You should never have been brought to Crimson. You don’t belong here.”

My throat closes. He wouldn’t say that. Hewouldn’t. The air shifts and I feel it like a current beneath my skin. The thread tucked in my boot flashes white-hot. A searing jolt like lightning spiking through my leg. I gasp, the pain sharp enough to anchor me. The pendant pulses once, hot, and sure against my chest. My vision swims. Not from the illusion. From memory. From truth.

This isn’t him.

Not even if he believed every word—he wouldn’t say it like that. Not like in front of a volatile crowd. It’s cruel, this version of him. Cold. Detached. The real Ember Heir has never looked at me like I was worthless. Never once. I press a hand to the burn left by the Cobalt thread and straighten my spine.

“No,” I say aloud, and the falseness of the world shudders.

The crowd freezes. The air distorts. Like something holding its breath.

“You’re not him,” I whisper. “You’re a copy. A trick.”

The fake Caz doesn’t flinch.

“You wanted the truth.”

“No.” My fingers curl at my side. “I wanted toearnthe truth. But you—you’re just fear in a mask. And I see you now. There is nothing youcan give me. Nothing I want.” My heartbeat steadies as I press a palm against the aching burn on my leg. “You’re not him.”

Caz—the thing pretending to be him—tilts his head.

“You could’ve fooled me,”he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“No,” I whisper. “He’d never say that. Even if he doubted me. Even if he wanted to give up on me, he wouldn’t tear me down like this. He protects people.”

The fake Caz’s face twists. The laugh that leaves his lips makes me shudder. I rise slowly to my feet.

“This was the trial the whole time,” I murmur. “And I see the truth now. Also, my Caziel doesn’t speak in contractions. You should have studied him better.”

The world tears apart like paper. The crowd, the sky, even the stones beneath my feet split, splintering into sharp, spinning shards of unreality. One blink, and the whole illusion collapses in on itself. Gone. The illusion breaks.

One moment I am on my knees in the arena, the echo of Caz’s voice—not his voice—still twisting in my ears. The next, I’m flat on my back in a hospital bed. The air smells like antiseptic. The lights overhead are white, sterile, real. A heart monitor beeps beside me. My limbs feel heavy. Panic builds slow and sharp, like glass in my throat. I blink at the stained ceiling tiles.

“What…?”

A nurse appears, smiling kindly, her scrubs the soft shade of cornflower blue. “You’re awake. That’s good.”

I try to sit up. Pain lances down my spine, dull but jarring. My head threatens to crack open like an egg.

“Where am I?”

“You’re at County General. You’ve been out for a while. After the elevator collapsed—well, it’s no wonder your brain needed some time to make sense of it.”

I freeze. “The…elevator?” No that was ages ago. The arena. The trial. I was in—

“Yes,” she says gently. “Do you remember it?”

Something’s wrong. Something is deeply wrong.

“Where—where’s George?” My voice shakes. “And Caziel?”

The nurse tilts her head. “I’m not familiar with those names. Do you want us to call someone for you?”