Page 192 of The Devil May Care

Varo, Lyra, Elira.

I turn back to the fighters. They still haven’t stopped. The music swelling like it’s feeding on their anger, the gold catching in their hair and skin until it almost looks like they’re glowing. Beautiful, if you don’t listen to the words coming out of their mouths. I should leave them. Captain Iskar’s warning echoes in my head. But my feet carry me forward anyway. The fighters don’t notice me until I step directly into their path.

Rhovan, the better fighter, has Malrik by the collar, half a heartbeat away from slamming him into a pillar. Their faces are red, voices sharp with venom, spitting insults that sound like they’ve been rehearsed in the mirror for years. I plant myself between them.

“Enough.”

They blink at me, and for half a second, the spell wavers. Then the one with the grip sneers.

“Stay out of this, human bitch.”

That hits harder than I want to admit. The realm knows exactly where to strike, and it lands with the precision of a blade. But I’ve been through Obsidian. I’ve been through Umbral. Words aren’t enough to gut me anymore.

“You think this matters?” I shoot back. “You think winning an argument here makes you more than you were before? It doesn’t. It just keeps you trapped.”

The other one laughs, low and cruel.

“Says the girl wrapped in a bedsheet, playing hero. Pathetic.”

“Go fuck your Prince again. It’s the closest you’ll get to rule, and he’ll throw you away like the trash you are the minute this is all over.”

I refuse to look down at myself, refuse to give them that. Instead, I step closer, forcing both to back up half a step.

“We’re leaving. All of us.”

The first one shoves the second hard, sending him stumbling into me. I catch my balance and use the momentum, twisting Rhovan’s arm to turn him toward the arch I know is there. The gilded light tries to distract me, to slip silk and gold over my thoughts. I grit my teeth, focusing on what’s real, on the faint shimmer in the air, the flicker of flame.

Malrik advances, jaw tight. “You don’t get to—”

I grab his wrist. He’s stronger than me, but strength doesn’t matter with the element of surprise. I throw my weight backward, pulling both of us off balance. The sheet tangles around my legs, but I keep pulling, step by step, toward the arch. They’re cursing now, half at each other, half at me. The realm presses harder, trying to drown me in its perfume and gold and music. I hear the crowd gasp, attendants calling out offers of help, as they rush forward. As if I’m the one in need of saving.

Maybe I am.

The shimmer is close enough now that I can see the fire licking along its edges. Gold, just like with Varo. One last yank, and both of them stumble forward. Rhovan grabs my arm to steady himself, exactly what I need, and Malrik tries to twist away, but I catch his tunic with my free hand. And then I fall.

Not gracefully. Not heroically. Just all at once, pulling them with me through the arch. The flames surge as we hit, heat washing over my skin in a rush that smells like metal and rain, but I don’t let go. Not until all three of us dash against the floor of the arena, panting.

Free.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

KAY

The gold light breaks around us like a dropped goblet, shards shivering midair before they melt into nothing. One heartbeat I’m choking on perfume and music and the heat of too many eyes; the next, I’m stumbling forward onto rough stone, dragging two full-grown contenders by their wrists. The arena’s air hits me like cold water. It smells of ash and metal and sweat. It smells real. Malrik wrenches his arm free the moment he has his footing, his glare sharp enough to cut. Rhovan pulls away slower, still breathing like he’s just run a sprint, but his eyes narrow at me like I’ve humiliated him. Fine. Add it to the list.

The roar rises around us, the crowd’s voice jagged and alive, so different from the honeyed applause of the Gilded ballroom it almost hurts to hear it. My ears are ringing, or maybe that’s just my pulse catching up to the fact that I am, somehow, still on my feet. I turn, half-expecting the archway to be there, gleaming gold like a door into temptation, but there’s only open air. The illusion is gone. The arena stretches in a jagged oval around us, and heat from Crimson’s Flame spills into the sand where the magic tore apart.

I push to my feet, and my knees threaten to give. I force them to lock. No collapsing here. Not with the crowd watching. Not when—for once—I’m not the only one looking wrecked. Lyra emerges from another corner of the arena, hair mussed and one sleeve torn at the seam. Elira’s tunic is dust-streaked and wrinkled, his ink-stained fingerscurled like he’s still holding the phantom of a pen. Even Varo looks like he’s walked through something more than a sparring match—though his gaze slides over me as if to say, “don’t ask.”

There’s relief in that, a strange solidarity. It’s not just me this time. A flicker of pride sparks before I can shove it down. Not the Gilded kind, the syrupy self-importance that soaked that ballroom, but the kind born of surviving something meant to crush you. I did not walk out alone. I pulled people through with me. Two people. Three if I include Elira. Are we all that’s left? Lyra, Elira, Rhovan, Malrik, Varo and… me? Six left from a field of thirteen?

The thought sours the taste in my mouth. I try to tell myself I did what I could, but the ache in my ribs says otherwise. The stones under my bare feet are sharp, merciless, leeching away the last of the Gilded comfort. The pain grounding, in a way, even as goosebumps chase up my arms. A Crimson attendant—real, Vesperan —appears at my side, pressing a coarse wool cloak into my hands. No silks. No jeweled pins. Just something to keep the wind off.

“Instead of the sheet,” she mumbles under her breath, and her fingers brush mine. I pull the cloak around me, the weight of it anchoring me back into my own skin. My fingers clutch the edge tighter than they need to, as if the cloth might keep the trial from bleeding back in.

The crowd’s roar swells again, but I do not turn. No one else is stepping out of the wreckage, the arch is gone. The trial complete. I let the sound wash over me without trying to understand the words. The syllables blend into boots scuffing stone, armor creaking, someone coughing in the stands. Real noises. Imperfect, unpolished. My chest loosens a fraction.

I look for Caziel before I can stop myself. My gaze sweeps the ranks of contenders, the watching Elders, the tiers of the crowd, but he’s not where I can see him. A knot forms low in my stomach, half worry, half something else I don’t want to name. Someone jostles past, and I catch a glimpse of the jagged edge where the arena wall meets the sky. The sun is too bright, or it feels that way after the candlelit gleam of the ballroom. I squint and try to breathe past the pounding in my skull.