Page 193 of The Devil May Care

The Gilded trial is over.I repeat the thought twice, just to be sure I believe it. And yet somewhere behind my ribs, the echo of that placehums like a plucked string. The music, the praise, the way it tried to sink its claws in under the guise of kindness. It didn’t win, but it left its mark.

I drag my focus back to the here and now. Stone. Ash. Cool air. Cloak tight around my shoulders. We leave the arena in a loose, uneven line, feet dragging on the stone as the crowd’s murmur fades behind us. No one is talking, not even Rhovan and Malrik who usually fill the silence with complaints or jabs. George trots at my heel like he’s been waiting there all along, tail swishing with feline offense. When I crouch to scoop him up, he lets out a pointed littlemrrpand blinks at me, slow and unamused.

“I didn’t mean to leave you,” I whisper into his fur. “Didn’t even know I was going, or that I’d left you behind. and I did try to get you out. You’re welcome.”

That’s the part I can’t shake. One moment, I’d been in Crimson—safe enough, or as safe as it gets here—and the next, I was already drowning in the deep end of the pool. No warning. No arch to step through. No chance to prepare. Just Umbral smothering me and then Gilded swallowing me whole, syrup-sweet and smiling while it tried to make me forget. Both were different from the other trials. Cobalt and the Obsidian’s illusions had been sharp-edged grief; Viridian a promise I desperately wanted to take. Umbral, a suffocating stillness. But Gilded… Gilded felt like sinking into warm water you didn’t realize was drowning you. No teeth. No fire. Just the constant, careful hollowing of your own will.

And I’d gotten out.Without a thread.

The thought is almost dizzying. I want to tell Caz, see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, maybe even the smile he tries to hide when I prove him wrong. But when I glance toward the arena’s edges, the tunnels behind, even the stands, he’s nowhere. No tall shadow to fall into step beside me, no steady voice asking if I’m hurt. Just absence, and the strange ache it leaves.

The shadow that falls across me isn’t an attendant. Too still. Too heavy. I look up and it’s one of the other contenders. The one who struck me in Gilded. Up close, he’s all broad shoulders and that slightly-too-square jaw that looks carved for intimidation. His expression is harder to read now—there’s no golden haze polishing the edges of it, nosmug curve to his mouth. Just a frown pulled tight enough to make his cheek twitch.

Malrik Soldenum, standard poodle, nephew of Elder Solonar. I don’t give him the satisfaction of rubbing the side of my face, even though the bruise throbs in time with my pulse. He shifts his weight, glances at the other contenders bustling around, and then back to me.

“I—” He stops, jaw locking. Whatever he thought this conversation would be, it’s not coming out smooth. “That wasn’t… me.”

I arch an eyebrow.

“You sure about that? Because your hand connected with my face just fine.”

A flicker of embarrassment crosses his features.

“It was the trial. Gilded.” He grimaces like the word tastes sour. “It gets inside you. Stirs everything up until all you can hear is the worst thing you’ve ever thought about yourself—or someone else—and you can’t stop feeding it.” His gaze flicks away, then back. “I’m not excusing it. Just, it wasn’t the truth of me.”

The truth of him.That’s an interesting way to put it. Part of me wants to bite back, to ask if the “truth” of him hits anyone else for sport. But the other part, the tired part, the part still peeling the gold varnish off my own thoughts, recognizes the cost of saying this aloud. Admitting weakness here isn’t something the pride-obsessed would do lightly.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “I don’t forgive easily, but you came back to yourself. That’s worth something.”

He exhales like I just handed him a reprieve.

“I still should not have let it happen.” His gaze drops to my cheek, and his hands flex like he wants to fix it but doesn’t know how. “I’ll stay out of your way.”

That’s not what I expected. I’d half-braced for posturing, a challenge to prove I could take a hit and still win. Instead, he’s giving me space.

“Okay” I say, softer than I mean to. He nods once—sharp, almost military—and walks off, lengthening his stride until he reaches the front of the group. I watch him go, feeling the air around me shift in a way I can’t quite name. We pass into the outer corridors, the light shifting to warm gold as the day begins to turn. The air smells of hot stone and dust, real and grounding. The sharp contrast to the Gilded ballroommakes me wonder again—when did the trial start? How much time did it really take?

George starts to purr, the slow, rumbling sound that works its way into my bones. It’s the first steady thing I’ve felt since the floor disappeared under me. By the time the barracks come into view, the tension in my shoulders has started to ease, just barely. Two trials in quick succession, and I’m still here. Still standing. That should be enough for now. But it isn’t. Not without Caz. I adjust my hold on George and keep walking, telling myself he’ll be there next time. That he’ll see I made it through without him—and maybe understand that I can.

The barracks are quieter than I expect when we file in, the echo of our footsteps swallowing the usual scrape of chairs and low chatter. No one rushes to grab food or water; we just drift to our bunks like soldiers returning from a losing campaign, each of us counting silent costs.

Varo’s isn’t here, but there are signs of him. His cot is neatly made, as always. Tight corners, blankets folded with military precision. My eyes snag there longer than they should, waiting for the sound of his boots, the way he fills a doorway without trying. He’d been in the trial. I’m sure of it. I remember seeing him step through the arch—gold flames licking the stone. I thought he walked out with the group… did I?

Lyra sits on the edge of her bed, unbraiding her hair with deliberate slowness, her gaze fixed somewhere past the wall. She doesn’t acknowledge me, but she doesn’t avoid me either. Elira, already stretched out, props a book against his chest and stares at the page without turning it. The two of them had made it out without much damage, at least physically. Rhovan sports a bruise darkening along his jaw. He catches my glance and holds it for a beat too long. I have a matching mark, I’d wager. I let the moment pass.

I drop onto my bunk with George curled against my ribs, his weight anchoring me in the real. My body hums with that strange post-trial exhaustion—not the ache of muscle, but the soft, dangerous temptation to let my guard slip. Gilded was supposed to be about pride, appearances, self-importance. I’d expected something sharp, confrontational, like the fighting duo. Instead, it crept in through comfort, the way warmth does before it lulls you to sleep. I think about how easily I could have stayed. How easily we all could have stayed. And how different that is from the first trials, where every instinct screamed at me to fight myway out. That is what makes me uneasy now. I’m not sure where the danger ends and the rest begins.

“You’re looking for him.” Captain Iskar leans her shoulder into the arch of my door.

“Who?” My voice is light, casual. Too casual.

“Varo,” her mouth twitches. “You’re not subtle, Kay.”

“I just…” I start, then let it die. She’s right. There’s no point lying. “He was there, with us in Gilded. He left first.” I assumed he made it out. He was in the arena. I need to talk to him, even if I don’t know what I will say.

“He saw the way out before we did.” Lyra leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “He doesn’t like to linger in any realm’s grip. It makes him restless.”

Something about the phrasing makes me pause. She knows him. From the Rite? Or from before? How many times have they fought the grip of other realms? I sound insane. Obsessed. But something keeps nudging at the edges of my brain.