Page 15 of The Devil May Care

“Apologies my Lord,” The other guard gives a courtly bow that doesn’t quite disguise the elbow he throws into his partner’s ribs. “We did not mean to overstep. Welcome back, Ember Heir.”

The first guard stiffens at the correction. I do not miss it. Nor do I miss the way his eyes slide to me. His gaze shifts over the scuffed toes of my shoes and up the line of my legs, I feel each inch like an oil slick. I swallow back the bile that backs up into my throat and step further behind my protector.

Ember Heir.

The title hits like a gong behind my ribs. I don’t know what it means, not exactly, but I can guess. And if I had doubts before that this man was important—dangerously important—they’re gone now.

My babysitter ignores the greeting. But he notices the way the guard’s gaze slides back to me like the guy is still deciding how sharp his curiosity can get without drawing blood.

“We’ll take the side gate,” my escort says, his voice quiet but absolute.

The guard opens his mouth—then thinks better of it.

We turn before anything else can be said, moving down a narrower, shadowed path that curves away from the flame-lit main entry. I wait until we’re out of earshot.

“So,” I murmur. “Ember Heir, huh?” He says nothing.

I don’t push, but I do file it away. Because whatever game I’ve stumbled into is not small. Which only means there are about a million ways I can fuck this up. Great.

CHAPTER FOUR

KAY

Crimson doesn’t look built. It looks summoned. Conjured by ancient magic.

The streets are carved from molten stone that’s cooled to a shimmer. The towers stretch like glass pulled in fire, curling upward in long spirals. Banners flutter where there’s no wind. And the light—gods, the light—it pulses low and slow from beneath the street, like the city itself is alive and breathing. We walk through it in silence. I trail just half a step behind Caziel. Not because I’m being submissive or anything, but because he walks like the ground was designed to cushion his every step.

The world opens up around me like a gasp.

We step out of the shadow of the gate and into a vast, sun-struck square—alive with motion and color. Stone streets shimmer with heat, dust catching in the air like gold. Vendors call out in a language I don’t understand but somehow feel. Their voices melodic, threaded with warmth and bite. The smell of spice and smoke tangles with something sweet—roasted fruit, maybe, or incense burning low in brass bowls. A fountain glows in the center, flame instead of water, its light painting everything in shades of red and gold. If the Wastelands were charred and desolate, deserted, then this city is everything else. Life and color and vibrant humming magic.

The people—God, the people. They look human, but only the way dreams do, familiar until you look too closely, until to meet someone’sgaze head on. Their skin comes in every shade, but it’s alive with undertones the light can’t decide on—bronze that flickers like embers, ivory that gleams faintly like pearl, deep obsidian that glows with hidden heat. People with hair in every color imaginable move through the crowd: molten copper, storm-blue, deep violet. Some have markings that shimmer like veins of metal beneath the skin. Some wear jewelry that hums faintly, alive. Piercings glint. Tattoos shift when they breathe.

They’re dressed like they’ve stepped out of a storybook—breeches, tunics, long coats, belts heavy with tools or weapons. Cloaks ripple in the warm wind. No phones, no cars, no distant buzz of electricity. Just the rustle of fabric, the crackle of firelight, the murmur of barter and laughter. It’s medieval and mythic all at once.

I glance at Caz—and for the first time, I really see him. His clothes match theirs: dark trousers, a deep almost-black tunic bound at the waist with leather, a cloak that falls heavy across his shoulders. Somehow, it suits him too well, like he belongs to this place and it to him. When I look too long, though, the air around him ripples—his skin flickering between human and something else entirely. I wonder if that has anything to do with his title. Or maybe it’s me. I notice because I’m human.

The crowd parts for him without question, and I trail after, trying to absorb everything at once—the sound, the heat, the heartbeat of a place that feels both ancient and alive. For a moment, I forget to breathe. If this isn’t a dream, if it’s not a movie set or a fairground or some beautiful hallucination, then it must be the afterlife and it’s beautiful.

Every single person we pass turns to stare at me. Not subtle stares, either. Not glances. Full-on, slack-jawed, whisper-in-their-language stares. The kind that makes you check if your fly’s down or your shirt’s inside out. Which, considering I fell through reality and probably have blood or dust on everything, is possible. I feel my spine trying to fold in on itself. So, I lift my chin, walk taller, and say nothing. Pretend I belong until someone believes I do.

We pass a family on one of the walkways—two adults with long, layered robes and a child walking between them. The kid can’t be more than five or six in human years. He has wide, luminous eyes and a braid down his back the same color as obsidian.

When he sees my escort, he lights up.

“Look!” he tugs at the nearest sleeve. “It’s Lord Caziel!”

My babysitter does not smile, but his eyes soften. He slows to a stop and I follow suit.

The boy bounces on the balls of his feet. “Can I say hello?”

An adult murmurs something to him, but the kid has already darted forward with a grin that could break stone.

“Hi, Ember Heir! I watched your sword trial in training last week! I’ve been practicing. You moved like this—” He swings an invisible blade in a full-body twirl and almost spins himself into the pavement.

Caziel gives him a nod. “Hello to you too Zhael. Your form has much improved.”

The boy beams like he’s been knighted. The adult chuckles and catches the child’s hand.