Page 187 of The Devil May Care

They look… human. Not in the mortal sense, but stripped of their easy arrogance, their confident tells. There are smudges under eyes that weren’t there before. Postures that slump where they’d normally hold like iron. One man keeps rubbing at his wrist like there’s a phantom shackle there.

It’s strangely comforting, in a way I didn’t expect.

The crowd above murmurs again, and this time the sound has weight to it—approval, maybe, or curiosity that isn’t entirely hostile. I’m not used to being the subject of anything but their suspicion or disdain. And I can’t tell if that makes me want to stand taller… or hide entirely.

It’s too quiet here. Not silent, there’s a hum from the crowd, like bees in a hive, but the usual jeers and bets aren’t there. The sound feels softer. Curious, almost approving. Attendants drift toward us in shimmering waves, their clothing all gold thread and perfect drape, like someone took the concept of “luxury” and spun it into human form. They don’t look at the crowd, only at us.

For a long moment, I just stand there, breathing.

It’s not still. That’s the first thing I notice. No heavy, syrupy air dragging me down, no invisible hands pressing me into the mattress. My legs feel shaky but they’re mine again. My muscles hum with the ache of being used. The arena glitters. Sunlight—real or illusion, I can’t tell—pours over everything, chasing away the dimness of Umbral like it never happened. The stone beneath my bare feet is warm, humming faintly, as if it approves of me standing on it.

A woman in gold-threaded robes approaches at a graceful glide, the train of her gown whispering over the ground. She smiles like she’s been waiting for me her whole life.

“Come, my lady,” she says, her voice bright and lilting. “You’ve done it.”

“Done it?” My voice sounds hoarse. “Escaped Umbral?”

“Escaped? Oh no. You’ve conquered it.”

I almost laugh. My hair’s a mess, my skin damp, and I’m clutching a bedsheet like it’s battle armor. If this is conquering, it’s not pretty. The relief hits me anyway. Umbral’s grip is gone, and for the first time in hours, maybe days, I can move. I just need to find—

The attendant extends a hand. Her palm is warm when I take it, and she tugs gently, guiding me forward.

“Come. We celebrate you now.”

“Celebrate?” I repeat, stumbling a little to keep the sheet from slipping.

“Yes. You’ve endured. The realm honors those who endure.” Her eyes skim over me without embarrassment, even when the sheet shifts and I blurt a panicked,

“I’m naked.”

“For now.” She laughs, but the sound is kind, and with a flick of her fingers, another attendant is suddenly there, draping something soft and heavy around my shoulders. It smells faintly of honey and spice, and I instinctively want to burrow into the soft collar.

“There. You’re perfect.”

I almost say I’m not, a cloak doesn’t fix the naked issue, but her expression makes it feel irrelevant.

We start walking—no, not walking—gliding, as though the space between the arena’s edge and the cushioned benches is meant to be crossed in slow, deliberate steps. Every movement is framed by the gleam of gold and the murmur of the crowd. I can hear my name, or maybe I imagine it, woven into their voices. An attendant presses a cup into my hand, her smile as soft as the robe around my shoulders. Heavy, inlaid with gold filigree.

“Drink. It will help.”

I take a sip. Sweet fruit and something sharper, like citrus with a spark. My limbs feel lighter already, the stiffness melting. Another hand brushes at my hair, tucking a stray strand behind my ear.

“We’ll make you ready for the feast,” she murmurs.

“Feast?”

“In your honor,” she says, like it’s obvious. “For the victors.”

I want to protest that there’s still more Rite ahead, but the words get lost somewhere between the warmth in my veins and the applause curling up from the crowd. Somewhere across the benches, Varo catches my eye. He’s letting an attendant adjust his collar, expression unreadable. But there’s a flicker in his gaze—too brief to pin down—that feels almost like a warning. Still, I keep moving toward the benches, toward the gold and the cushions and the smiling faces, because right now, it feels good to move.

The benches are draped in velvet so soft it feels like water under my palms. Gold plates gleam in the sun, piled high with roasted meats, jeweled fruits, sugared pastries that sparkle like they’ve been dusted with gemstones. Attendants move like dancers, refilling goblets before they’re half empty, slipping silver-handled knives into waiting hands. I’m settled onto a cushion that swallows me whole. The robe I’m wrapped in is drawn snug around my shoulders, the cup in my hand refilled with something richer, sweeter.

They keep touching me. Light fingers on my arm, brushing at my hair, adjusting the fall of the robe like I’m a painting being framed. Every gesture is paired with another compliment.Radiant. Resilient. Deserving.The words braid together until I almost forget they’re strangers speaking. I take another sip without thinking. The drink hums in my veins, loosening something tight in my chest.

My gaze again catches on Varo.He’s three seats down, exactly where I would expect him not to be—no attendants fussing at his clothes, no drink in hand. His plate is untouched. He sits with his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on nothing in particular, the set of his mouth sharp enough to cut. When my eyes catch his, it’s like a tether pulling taut. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just gives the smallest shake of his head.

No.