Page 154 of The Devil May Care

“The Rite is not a spectacle,” he continues. “It is a crucible. And some metals shatter under fire.”

“She’s already altered the balance,” an Elder says.

“She’s visible,” someone else counters. “To the people. They watch her.”

That lands wrong. I feel it in my chest, the subtle shift in my father’s posture, the almost imperceptible clench of his jaw.

“Yes,” he says slowly. “And therein lies the danger.” His gaze sweeps the table. “When the people begin to hope,” he says, “they must be careful what they hope for.”

The silence holds. It is not what my father says, but what he holds back. The way he cloaks his intent in caution. As if concern for the Realm is all that motivates him. As if he has not already begun drawing knives in secret. Cobalt is still a wound in this room. No one names it. But we all feel it. The memory tampering. The fear. The price.

My father’s Rite secured his rule, but peace was out of Crimson’s grasp for generations. Between the Embermaw incursions along the southern wastes and Cobalt tugging at the threads of our shared border, the current Asmodeus earned respect by making hard decisions. Tough ones. He rallied a scared and battered people, urging us to find strength and fight for our land and our Flame. There are legends told about his showing in the Rite. He swept each trial like a myth reborn—invincible, relentless, chosen. He is revered through the realm by all Daemari, and I was once one of them.

I believed the tales, once. At the keep, they spoke of him as a savior, of courage unbroken and of will that kept the Flame burning when the world around us dimmed. I carried those stories to the border and clung to them through every campaign, every battle, but the legends and the reality of war rarely align. That is the trick of Cobalt’s reach—they twist truth and memory and clarity until even those who bleed beside you begin to doubt what is real and what is illusion. I thought that was the cost of defending our realm: that such magic erodes more than the land.

But war does something else, too. It hardens. It sharpens. My father came back from the front with victory in hand and frost in his veins. The years that followed shaped him into something colder, unyielding, calculating. No one expected the Rite to rise again while he still drew breath, but the Flame does not lie. It called the brands anyway. It decided his reign had run its course.

I have searched the archives. There is little record of any Rite before his own, or record of the Flame usurping a current ruler, as though history began and ended with him. And now, as these trials unfold, I see the cracks widening. The council whispers of influence, of steering the outcome, yet the Rite should be sacrosanct. It belongs to the Flame alone and yet my father is already preparing for what comes next.

Perhaps that was always his intent; to mold me in his image, then keep his hand upon the throne through mine. Except I turned from him. I made known I could not be led by another’s will without reason. Until her. Kay. He has found a chink in my resolve, managed to pull me back by my tail. Does he believe I will barter for her safety? If he does, he is far more calculating than I once presumed.

Does he mean to make her the next threat? To put fear somewheretangible and rally the realm around a new war? Does he know I will not allow it? Is he counting on my unwillingness to stand aside?

I keep my arms crossed, shoulder against the stone. I muscle down the wince as I remember I once called her chaos. But she is not a disrupter. Not truly. She is Kay. Wholly herself. Wholly human. She is not upsetting the balance. She is not applying pressure. It is us. Crimson.

The Daemari. It is the realm’s inability to accept that her differences do not make her less than. Even if I once thought it too.

“She is playing by our rules,” I say. “Should she be punished for surviving by them.”

“Are you sure,” My father tilts his head, gaze unreadable. “That they are our rules she’s playing by?”

The implication is cold. And not just aimed at her.

Solonar steps in smoothly, probably scenting blood on the horizon, the artfully neutral voice of reason.

“Then we agree. The Rite continues. But perhaps with less delay. The Flame sets the pace, but it can be persuaded. These trials were not meant for humans. Perhaps she’ll recognize her own limits with less time to recuperate. Less time for her to find… loopholes.”

Several heads nod. Plans ripple beneath the surface like submerged stone.

They want to accelerate the trials. Throw her off balance. Tip the odds. And my father? He wants her gone before she proves herself beyond his control. I glance at Solonar. His eyes meet mine. No expression. But something in them sharpens. He knows, or he suspects.Loopholes. The threads, three now. The rule I bent.

I keep my face impassive. I do not regret my choice. It was a long shot giving her the threads, letting her experience a taste of the other realms, but it was up to the Flam to help her. The Flame chose. The council should not interfere. She deserved a chance at survival, and if they try to take the next one from her, I will burn down the arena myself.

My father’s voice is quiet, but every word lands like a weighted coin dropped into water, ripples spreading outward, altering the shape of the room.

“It’s not just about strength,” he says, eyes drifting across the table. “The Rite was forged to ensure the future of the realm. The future of Crimson. Not merely through fire, but through lineage. Legacy. The Daemari bloodline must remain strong.”

And there it is. Soft. Reasonable. Poison.

The Elders murmur in agreement, one of them intoning something about “resonant flame purity,” as though we are discussing metal, not lives.

They speak of inheritance like it is sacred. Like certain threads of ancestry burn hotter, cleaner. Like those touched by other realms, those with forgotten or mingled heritage, are somehow less. As if there are not those of this realm that do not call to the Flame, but still deserve safety, security, life.

Solonar does not speak, but his gaze darts my way. They mean her. They mean Kay, and not just because she is human. Because she was not chosen by any sanctioned lineage. Because her survival was not ordained by scroll or bloodline or blood-soaked prophecy. She simply endures. Which to them, is inconvenient. A threat to their order.

My father folds his hands. “It is fortunate,” he says smoothly, “that among the contenders, we have a candidate of unimpeachable background. Trained from childhood. Loyal. Descended from a line known for clarity of flame and service to the realm.”

He does not say Varo’s name. He does not have to, but someone less wise does anyway.