Page 199 of The Devil May Care

Heat moves under the floor in a single hard shudder, as if the chamber itself has laughed. I hold my breath until the urge to deny passes. His delight is a hook; I will not hang myself on it.

“No,” I say, flat.

He sets the cup down on the arm of the throne with delicate care, like this is a conversation about weather.

“Oh, Caziel. You do so love a story where your choices remain your own.” The smile he shows me is all teeth and patience. “The Flame wouldn’t tell you? Truly? It murmured to me like an old friend, and I am—what was the word they used in the last council meeting? Ah, yes. ‘A sovereign in ash.’ Even embers catch, given dry wood.” He taps one claw against the stone; listens to the ring it makes. “You, onthe other hand, are set alight and pretending you cannot feel the burn.”

Above us, the crowd surges again, closer this time, like some mechanism has opened to funnel the sound down into this black heart. Kay could be in the ring this very breath, or in an archway that is not an archway, or falling. The thought drags sharp along my ribs, and I grind it to ash.

“If you dragged me from my bed to trade in innuendo,” I say, “I’ll return you to your councilors and their flattery.”

He laughs, delighted, the sound bright as breaking glass.

“There he is.” My father leans forward, and for a heartbeat the heat lifts another degree, the gold veins brightening. “Deny it if you like. It changes nothing. Bond or not, I see the way your gaze goes looking when I say, ‘the human.’” His chuckle is low. “It is very sweet. And very foolish.”

I keep my face still, the old discipline settling like armor. I do not ask if she is in the trial. I do not let my eyes flick toward the ceiling when the stone hums with a distant impact. I do not give him the satisfaction of the smallest tell.

“State your reason,” I repeat. “Or summon me when you remember it.”

He leans back, idly tracing the rim of his cup with one claw, like he is considering whether to drink or dash it at my feet.

“My reason?” His tone drips with false thoughtfulness. “Hm. Perhaps to remind my son—my precious, stubborn ember—that the Rite is not a game he can win by pulling one fragile piece out of the fire. Even if she survives—” He lifts his gaze, gold catching gold. “—you do understand, don’t you? They will take her from you anyway?” The words drop into me like molten iron, searing, settling. I don’t move. Don’t breathe. He tilts his head, studying my stillness like a particularly rare insect he might pin to a wall. “You think the elders will let an outsider sit atmytable? You think the Flame will allow it? The moment she poses a threat—or an opportunity too rich to ignore—they will consume her. And if she resists…” He lets the sentence trail off, smiling like the end is self-evident.

The crowd roars above us, the sound muffled but relentless, like theocean through stone. A sound I know too well—the pitch of it not triumph, not delight, but the quick, sharp exhale of blood.

“She is not yours to decide over,” I say, voice even.

“On the contrary, she’s entirely mine to decide over. As is the Rite. As are you.” His smile sharpens. “What’s the matter, Ember? Do you imagine the bond?” He draws the word out until it burns. “Did you think it was wishful thinking? Hope it will make her untouchable? That it will shield her from the cost of standing where she does now? The bond is no armor. It is a leash. You’ve just tied it to your own throat as well.”

I can hear my own pulse. Steady, measured, the same rhythm I use to keep from striking before the right moment. I will not rise to his bait, not when the trial could be happening above us, not when I can feel the tension in the air like the moment before a blade slips.

“I came because you summoned me,” I tell him. “I can leave if you have nothing of value to share.”

“And if I tell you she’s in the arena right now?” His gaze gleams, a satisfied, sated predator. “If I tell you she’s already bleeding?”

For half a breath, the image hits me, Kay’s twisted body, bloodied and broken, and I want to move. I want to break this chamber in half and climb through to wherever they’ve placed her. He sees it. Of course he does. His laughter is low and certain.

“Ah. There it is. That’s the look I was waiting for.” He sets his cup down with deliberate care, the click of metal on stone louder than it should be. “You don’t like not knowing, do you?” His voice curls around the edges of the room, each word stretching out just enough to be deliberate. “You’ve always needed to be in the thick of it. To see every blade, every move, so you can decide whether to stop it. But here you are—” He gestures lazily toward the ceiling, as though the arena hangs directly over our heads. “—and there she is. Somewhere you cannot reach.”

I force my jaw to stay loose, my posture neutral.

“If you have something to say, say it.”

“Oh, I will. But you’ll have to decide whether it’s truth or merely the smoke I choose to breathe in your face.” His smile is pure provocation. “She’s in the middle of something, Caziel. Not a sparring ring, not the safe little tests you’ve been trying to prepare her for. The kind of trialthat peels the skin from the heart. The kind that leaves marks no healer can mend.”

My fingers curl against my palm, nails biting into skin.

“And you called me here—”

“—because I want to see if you would flinch.” His gaze sharpens. “You’ve been flouting tradition for her. Skirting the Rite’s boundaries. Pulling threads that you have no right to touch. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” The Flame between us flickers in its brazier, as if it knows we’re circling toward something more dangerous than either of us will admit aloud. “You think I’m here to scold you,” he says softly. “I’m here to remind you that she only stands because I allow it. The Rite obeys me, not the other way around. And if I will her to fall, I could whisper the word, and it would be done.”

I can feel tendrils of Flame and rage coil in my blood. He leans back, languid as a cat with feathers still around its mouth. The brazier flames lean with him, obeying, as though the fire itself is deferential. But it is a trick. He no longer has the ear of the Flame, if he did the Rite would not—

“She’s yours, Ember. Whether you’ll name it or not, the bond is there. The Flame showed me. It answers to me, after all.”

I still. Not from agreement—never agreement—but from the sheer audacity. The Rite belongs to the Flame. It belongs to the Realm. No one commands it. Not even the Asmodeus. To claim so is arrogance on a scale that brushes against sacrilege.

“If you truly believe so,” I say, keeping my tone flat, “why are you here in the dark with me? Shouldn’t you be at the arena, watching her ‘fall’ under your grand design?”