Page 205 of The Devil May Care

Not official. No crest. No wax seal. Just a thin fold and a line of ink in handwriting I’ve started to recognize, even if I’ve never seen it used like this.

Meet me. Please

Three words. That’s it. No name. No place. But it doesn’t need more. My fingers tighten around the paper. Something about it hums, low and warm beneath my skin. Like the thread around my neck knows who sent it. It’s him. Of course it is. The ink is precise, just a little too careful—like the person writing it didn’t trust their own hands. Like they needed this to be perfect. My pulse answers before my thoughts do.

Caziel.

The heat rises differently now, low in my chest. My mark stirs. Not the fire and burn it gave me in the Rite, not the slicing ache of a trial, but something softer. Like being called. Welcomed.I sit on the edge of the cot, not even bothering to unlace my boots. He’d stuck to me like glue after finding me with Varo, walking me back to his chambers to feed and bathe me. I don’t know how he got this note here, not when I only just left him back at the keep, but this noteisfrom him. I can almost taste the truth of it as I hold the parchment in my hands.

Is this smart? Probably not. The last time he pulled me away from routine, I ended up half-wrecked in a flaming corridor, but my hand keeps brushing the parchment, like it’ll vanish if I don’t hold onto it. Like it matters.

It’s not the note that makes me stand. It’s the feeling deep in the center of my gut. A gentle, but insistent, pull behind my ribs. The tether I don’t have a name for. I don’t know what this is, but I want to find out. I have earned this one, small comfort.I shouldn’t go,but even I can taste the shape of the lie because my feet are already moving, fast, urgent. As if I can walk faster than my brain can overthink what I’m walking toward.

I try the obvious places first—his chambers. The Ember Chamber. Even the training courtyard, in case I’m reading into the note and he’s hoping to trounce me in training again. No sign of him. Just passing guards, bowed heads, and the quiet lull of the Flame settling toward evening.

And still, the feeling lingers. A weight in my chest, soft and insistent. It is not fear. Not danger, yearning. Like something is waiting for me. Likesomeoneis. My fingers drift to the pendant at my neck. It barely pulses, a tiny thrum like a heartbeat that isn’t mine. Like it’s trying to tell me something. The pulses grow stronger as I head toward the south of the keep, fading a bit as I wind down a wide stone staircase, but picking back up when I turn on my heel and head up. My mark flares faintly under my sleeve. No pain. Just heat.

Okay. We’re just going to play Hot and Cold with a necklace. No big deal. Maybe this is stupid. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I turn down a hall I’ve never taken before, following the tug and the beat like it’s a string pulled gently from somewhere just beyond my sight.

The corridors shift, the walls narrowing as if pressing in on me.Stone grows darker underfoot, old and worn with heat. I pass no one. I reach a stairwell that spirals up toward open air. The higher I climb, the warmer the pendant gets. I keep following it. The weight behind my sternum grows tight.

Wind curls through the open arch at the top—carrying the scent of flame and ash and something sweet. I pause for a moment, not wanting to step through. I’ve been burned by too many damn arches, but the pendant is insistent, and my breath catches as I duck under the stone curve.

The terrace is high above the city, carved into a rise of black stone that overlooks the sprawl of Crimson. The whole thing glows—not with the searing red of trial fires, but with soft golden lanterns strung in loose arcs overhead, each one flickering with flame that sways in the breeze. Metal bowls, shallow and curved like open hands, cradle steady embers along the edges of the stone. Vines I’ve never seen before—blooming deep burgundy and violet—curl through the carved railing, their scent faint and warm. Embers catch, floating in the air, like fire bugs back home. I used to go into the yard in late September, catching them in Mason jars with my dad. A wish for each glowing spark.

A table sits near the center, set for two. Real cloth napkins. Ornate goblets. Silver so polished it glints like moonlight. Covered dishes releasing faint trails of steam. Every detail precise. Every line too clean. I hover, unsure if I’ve actually come to the right place. This looks like something out of a storybook, a movie, or a memory that doesn’t belong to me.

And then I see him.

Caziel stands near the railing, back to me, his shoulders outlined in the lantern light. He’s not in his usual black-and-burnt armor. He wears a dark tunic—fitted but soft-looking—embroidered with threads of crimson and gold. His hair is down, glamored, but rustling in the faint breeze. There is no weapon on his back, only a small dagger at the sheath on his hip, but the hilt looks too pretty for use, carved in swirls of gold. He looks… like a prince. Not the kind who scowls at me across a training ring. Not the one who caught my wrist mid-swing and told me to try again. This version of him belongs in a painting. Or a dream. This is the Ember Heir.

He turns, and his eyes catch mine instantly. No surprise on his face.No smirk. Just the faintest tilt of his mouth—like this moment is exactly how he pictured it.

“Thank you for coming,” he says.

My throat’s dry. I force my legs to move forward, though part of me still thinks I should turn around and leave before this becomes something I can’t explain. I stop just short of the table, looking between the plates and the lanterns and back to him.

“What… is this?”

He studies me for a beat, then answers, quiet and sure. “It’s for you.”

“Why?” I frown.

That smile deepens just slightly, touching the edges of his unglamored eyes.

“Because the world keeps asking too much of you. Tonight, I want to give you something in return.”

I don’t know how to respond to that.

I glance at the seat. It’s cushioned. Draped with a rich velvet cloth I’m sure I’ll ruin if I sit on it. I glance down at my own clothes—fitted black under a tunic still dusty from the training yards, sleeves rolled up, hair braided back tight. I didn’t dress for this. I didn’t know to.

“I should’ve changed,” I murmur, suddenly self-conscious.

Caziel steps forward, not too close. “You are perfect. Exactly as you are.”

My heart does something I don’t like, a clench and tumble that feels like swinging too high. I sit. For a few moments, we’re both still. Then he lifts the lid on the nearest platter, and the scent hits me—smoke and fruit and something sweet underneath. My stomach growls before I can stop it. He pretends not to notice. I pretend I don’t want to cry. I don’t know what this is, but I know no one has ever done anything like it for me before. And that might be the scariest part of all.

I sink onto the seat opposite him, the table between us low and elegant—ornate without being ridiculous. The food is warm. Spiced. A little sweet. There’s a dish that smells like roasted root vegetables and something like cinnamon, and another that glistens with orange and crimson slices of meat I can’t name but recognize from the marketplace. I stare.