Page 149 of The Devil May Care

“She has endured,” a voice announces.

The herald’s voice echoes across the stone. “Contender Thirteen has completed the Cobalt Trial.”

Stillness. Then a ripple of noise threads through the stands. Whispers and murmurs and disbelief.

“She made it.”

“What did she see?”

“Why is the flame—”

“It’s reacting—look—”

And then—

“Mrrrrowwww”

“GEORGE?!”

An angry orange blur bursts across the arena. George. He dodges past a guard, his fluffy tail bouncing like he owns the place, and launches himself at me. I gasp, arms wrapping around him, burying my face in his thick fur. He smells like dust and home and magic. I laugh. Itcomes out choked and shaky, but it’s real. I look up and everything else falls away because Caziel is there, standing at the edge of the arena, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw locked. His eyes are molten. Focused on me like I’m the only thing that exists.

The air around him wavers—just enough to catch a hint of something else beneath the glamor. The faint shimmer of a horn. The way his Embermark might trail up his throat, but I ignore it all because it’s the look in his eyes that breaks me wide open. Pride. Relief. Something tender I don’t have a name for.

He nods. Once. And I nod back. I’m still shaking. Still scraped raw, but I see him. And I know he sees me. And for the first time since the Rite began, I believe I can do this.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

KAY

Ifind Caziel where I knew he’d be, watching the arena from above like it still holds something sacred. The trial is over, but the residue lingers in the air. On my skin. In the hollows of my breath. He doesn’t turn when I approach, but I know he senses me. Caz doesn’t miss things.

I stop beside him and fold my arms tight across my chest. The silence stretches. A question waiting to be asked.

“You came through.” His voice is grit and gravel and ash.

I nod, once. “Barely.”

He glances at me then, that sharp gaze searching not for wounds, but for fractures beneath them.

“Tell me what you saw.”

I hesitate. Not because I don’t trust him, but because I do. And because the worst part of the trial wasn’t the fear. It was him. Or something wearing his face. Using his voice to cut me down. I know it wasn’t real, but that doesn’t mute the memory.

“I’d rather not,” I say.

There’s a pause—brief but telling. He doesn’t push. Just looks back out over the amphitheater. I sit down a little behind him, far enough that I don’t have to meet his eyes.

“I used the thread,” I say instead. “I didn’t mean to, but it was there. In the worst part. I think it helped.”

“I am glad,” His voice is gentle. “I meant it to steady you.”

Another pause. Then, because I need anything else to talk about:

“Why can I suddenly understand everyone?”

His head tilts, not quite a smile, but something close.

“Was a hint of existential dread not enough for today?”