Page 188 of The Devil May Care

It’s barely anything—an inch of motion, maybe less—but it carves through the haze in my skull. I blink, and the sound of the crowd softens. The taste of the drink turns cloying. I set the goblet down. The attendant nearest me notices immediately, her smile tightening.

“Is it not to your liking, my lady? We have others—”

“I’m fine.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

She dips her head in graceful submission but replaces my cupanyway. Something presses at the back of my thoughts, feather-light but persistent, like a door someone keeps leaning against. I can’t name it, but I know it’s there. I glance back at Varo. He hasn’t looked away. His expression doesn’t change. But I realize now—it isn’t indifference. It’s refusal.

Refusal to drink. Refusal to eat. Refusal to play along.

And, maybe, refusal to let me get pulled under without at least one person in this arena remembering the point of all this. I hold Varo’s stare for another heartbeat, then glance away. If I keep looking, I’ll start imagining his thoughts, and knowing Varo, they’ll be more judgmental than helpful.

The table draws my attention back like a magnet. A platter is set down beside me, still steaming, the scent curling into my nose and sinking claws into my ribs. I haven’t eaten anything since before Umbral. My stomach growls like it’s in on the prowl. This time, I don’t refuse. The meat is tender enough to fall apart against my tongue, juices warm and spiced with something I can’t name. I hum without meaning to, which earns a satisfied murmur from the attendant on my left.

“Our champion should not go hungry.”

I almost laugh.Champion. The word slips into me with the same ease as the wine, lingering like heat. I take more. More food, more sips of drink, more of the soft hands fixing the fall of my robe so it frames me perfectly for the crowd beyond the dais. I’m aware of them now—rows and rows of onlookers, all eyes bright, faces alight.

And they’re looking at me.

No—at us. The contenders who made it through. But when my gaze skims the nearest faces, the smiles seem wider when they land on me. A flicker of pride—warm, almost pleasant—flares low in my chest. I don’t trust it, not entirely. But I don’t push it away either.

The music begins, strings and flutes winding together like vines—were they there the whole time?—and an attendant offers me her hand. She’s young, her smile too perfect, gold hair shining under the lights, but I let her help me up. The robe whispers against the floor as I follow her to a raised platform where dancers spin in gold-threaded silks.

“Not my thing,” I start to say, but the rhythm catches my feet before the words are finished. My body sways of its own accord, hips shifting in time with the music.

The crowd cheers. It’s not loud—more of a ripple than a roar—but it slides under my skin like sunlight. I move again, slower this time, letting them watch. Something in me knows this is wrong. Knows this isn’t the Umbral stillness, but it’s still a trap. And then I glance over my shoulder, just once.

Varo’s still there. Still not eating. Still not drinking. Still shaking his head. Such a subtle rejection II almost miss it. It’s not enough to stop me from swaying. But it keeps me from forgetting. The music swells, dancers spinning faster, the gold-threaded banners above us rippling like captured sunlight. An attendant refills my cup before I even think to lift it. The wine is sweet, almost sparkling, and the first sip drapes a warm flush across my cheeks.

It’s easy to let it happen, the glow, the hum, the sense that I am the one they’ve been waiting for. The reason for this celebration. Everyone is watching me, after all. It’s nice to finally have it be for good things. I take another sip. It’s not vanity, not really, just fact. I’ve survived what others couldn’t. I’ve bested realms that were never meant for me. Surely, they see that.

A sharp clatter snaps me out of it. Down the table, Rhovan slams his goblet down hard enough to rattle the silverware. Wine spills across the table, dripping in dark rivulets onto the marble floor.

“Say it again,” he growls.

Across from him, Malrik leans back, lips curling. “I said you were lucky to make it through. The Flame must have been in a generous mood.”

His voice drips with the same gold-glossed arrogance that’s been threading through my own thoughts.

Rhovan lunges.

Chairs crash, attendants scatter, and the two collide in a tangle of fists and shouts. It’s not just a fight, it’s performance, each punch meant to prove they’re already the better man. Pride makes them fierce, reckless, and the crowd eats it up. Gasps, delighted laughter, applause.

My gaze finds Varo again. He hasn’t moved. His hands rest on the arms of his chair, his face a carved mask. He’s not watching the fight, he’s watching me. His stillness is as deliberate as the shake of his head, again, when our eyes meet.

It’s an anchor.

I glance further down. Lyra sits with that same poised restraint, her plate untouched. Two others mirror her, all of them seeming just slightly apart from the gold haze settling over the rest of the table. And it is a haze. I can feel it pressing against my skin, sliding under my thoughts like silk.

They should be watching me, not them. I’m the reason they’re here.The thought slips in so easily I almost don’t catch it.

Attendants finally step into the dispute, prying the two fighters apart before it tips into real bloodshed. Malrik’s lip is split, Rhovan’s knuckles raw, but both are grinning through the pain like they’ve won something. The crowd cheers like they have.

A woman in gold-threaded silk leans toward me, her perfume heavy and intoxicating.

“See how even the strong cannot contain their fire here? Let them burn, my lady—it is the mark of the worthy.”

Her words are honey, and for a heartbeat, I want to believe them. To believe I’m not just worthy, I’m inevitable, but Varo’s earlier warning slithers back through the haze:The Realm lies. And I’m starting to think this trial does too. The wine in the cup they hand me is golden, bright enough to throw sunlit shards onto my palm. I turn it just to watch the way it catches the light, lazy and hypnotic, before I remember that I don’t actually like wine. Still… it smells divine.