Page 190 of The Devil May Care

Someone nearby laughs at something I didn’t hear. Someone else offers me a necklace, the gems catching the candlelight in a thousand tiny suns. My skin prickles. The attention is suffocating, wrapping around me like silk ropes. They want me to believe it. That this is my place. That the fight is over, the Rite is done, and all I have to do is accept. But the moment I do, I’ll be lost.

I shift in my seat, forcing my focus away from the weight of their gazes. The chairs are carved like thrones, legs curling into lion’s paws. I wonder—briefly—if the one I’m sitting in even has legs, or if it’s just the illusion of support. It would be so easy to stay. To lean back and let them pour more wine, slip me into a gown, pile my hair with jewels. But easy is never safe here.

The memory of the arch won’t leave me alone. It’s a loose thread in the weave of this place. I tug at it with my mind, and the edges of the ballroom ripple, so faint I almost miss it. They must sense me pulling back, because the attendants close in again.

“You’ve given so much,” one croons, laying a hand over mine. “It’s time for you to receive.”

“And why shouldn’t you?” another adds, sharp beneath the sugar. “Do you think anyone else has earned this more?”

I almost laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s the exact wrong thing to say to me. I didn’t ask for this, and I sure as hell didn’t fight through everything for a pile of gold and false smiles. The temptation claws at me, anyway, whispering in my ear:You’ve been through so much. Don’t you deserve something good?

Maybe I do. But not like this.

I push back from the table, the sheet slipping higher on my shoulder. The crowd shifts around me, attendants parting like I’m still the center of their celebration, still the jewel they want to polish and show off. Their adoration doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like a trap. The air is different when I stand, lighter somehow, though I know it’s an illusion. Attendants shift closer in a silent choreography, their smiles painted on with impossible precision.

“Where are you going?” one asks, though the question is sweet enough to sound like an offer.

“Just… stretching my legs.” I keep my voice light, matching their syrupy tone. If I tell them I’m looking for Varo, they’ll swarm like hornets. I’ve learned by now to keep certain names behind my teeth. Another attendant steps into my path, silk skirts whispering against my legs.

“Whatever you need, we can bring to you.”

I nod, feigning gratitude. “Perfect.” I wrack my brain for the most random thing I can think of. “I want a music box, but not with a ballerina in the middle. A bear in a tutu. Oh and it should play the Ragtime Waltz and be filled with the northern lights.”

I think my plan is working. They drift off with promises to return quickly, but others slide into their place, murmuring over me, offering everything from a change of clothes to a seat at the high table. I smile without agreeing to anything, scanning the crowd.

And that’s when I notice Varo is gone.

I can’t say when I last saw him—he’d been at one of the far tables, posture rigid, the only one in the room who didn’t look like they belonged draped in gold. Now there’s just empty space where he’d sat, the shadows deeper in that corner as if swallowing him whole. The ripple that goes through me isn’t relief or panic—it’s confirmation. If Varo found his way out, I can too.

I start moving, slow at first, winding my way between gilded tables and fountains spilling streams of honey-colored wine. The other contenders are scattered through the room. Rhovan and Malrik are still locked in a vicious back-and-forth, trading insults that slice cleaner than any blade.

“You think you’re better than me because you survived?” Rhovan spits, his gown glittering like molten coins under the light.

Malrik laughs—a sharp, ugly sound. “Better? I am better. Look at you. You can’t even—”

I tune them out before I start yelling, too. That’s exactly what this place wants. Across the room, Elira sits in a plush chair with a plate in his lap, a book balanced on the armrest. He looks content, even peaceful, like the chaos of the Rite never happened. Nearby, Iskar leans against a mirrored column. She has separated from Caelthar, her arms crossed as she studies the room like it’s a map. She’s not touching the food, not engaging with anyone. She sees me watching her and raises her chin slightly in what might be a warning—or a greeting. I can’t tell.

Then movement catches my eye. At the far end of the room, almost swallowed by a spill of gold drapery, a stone arch flickers into being. One second, it’s there, the next it’s gone, a mirage caught in shifting heat. Varo is there too, stepping toward it, steady and unhurried. For a moment I think he won’t look back, but he does.

Our eyes meet across the room. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something there—a flicker of recognition, maybe even approval. Then he turns and steps through. Gold flames flare along the edge of the arch and swallow him whole. I stop breathing for a beat.

Proof.

This isn’t Umbral anymore. This is Gilded. Caziel had mentioned it once, something about Dragons and mates and I stopped listening because if I wasn’t going to see a dragon did I care? No. Now I sift through my memories hoping for something. Anything.

Pride. Appearances. Self-importance.

If I’m right, then this entire ballroom is a snare.I think about what would save me here. That no one sees me as worthy? That some do? The thought stings even as it strengthens me.George would see me.Caziel would.I straighten my shoulders. I am worthy, but not like this. Not because they’ve decided to dress me in gold and call it honor.

The arch is my way out. And I’m getting to it before this place sinks its claws into me.I push toward the exit, but the fighting pair block my path, spinning each other like predators circling in glittering gowns and shredded pride. The venom in their voices is enough to curdle the sweet air.

“You couldn’t win even if the Rite handed you the crown,” Malrik hisses, hand’s fisted in his opponent’s hair. Rhovan snarls, yanking free.

“I wouldn’t need the crown to be better than you.” It’s cruel, personal, the kind of barbed truth people hide until the worst parts of them are bared for all to see. I’ve heard this kind of nastiness before, in locker rooms, from disgruntled foster siblings, in every place people feel safest tearing someone else down to climb a rung higher.

“Hey,” I step forward, hands raised. “This isn’t helping either of you. It’s time to go.” They freeze—not in shame, but in perfect, cold attention. Their gazes turn on me, heavy with contempt.

“Time to go?” Rhovan repeats, voice dripping with amusement. “Who are you to tell us anything?”