Page 215 of The Devil May Care

When I glance up, the woman is still watching me with the same calm, endless patience. There is no cruelty in her voice. No mockery. That almost makes it worse. Like she believes this is kindness. Like she thinks clarity will save me. But this clarity isn’t real. It’s sharp enough to cut, but none of it fits. It’s boxes where there should be rivers. Fences where there should be paths.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I don’t know.

I don’t know, but the questions keep coming anyway. Faster now. I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. Hard. Like I can squeeze the thoughts into something that makes sense. Like pressure might stop the unraveling.

“Would you rather endure alone, or collapse in someone’s arms?”

“Would you rather forget your pain, or carry it forever so others don’t have to?”

“Would you rather leave a mark—or be the one who removes them?”

My breath shortens. The room, the light, the chair—they start towarp. Not physically. It’s not magic I can see. But something tilts inside me. Like the ground just shifted under my ribs.

I want to scream. Or sleep. Or curl up so tight no one can reach me. Because I don’t know. I don’t know the answers. I don’t even know if these are the right questions. I drowning. Sucking in water by the mouthful until there’s no room inside me for air or words or thoughts. No room to answer. I’m failing. This is it. This is my end. I made it to Argent and could go no further. Does that bother me? Am I upset? Do I care? This wasn’t my fight.

And then I feel it, barely there at first. A soft thrum under my collarbone like a second heartbeat. I lift a shaking hand and touch the spot without thinking. The little pendant Caziel tucked beneath my shirt back in the arena. Lava glass threaded with impossible fire. The red orb pulses gently against my skin.

It’s warm. Alive. I inhale and feel the sweet air all the way in the tips of my toes. Suddenly I’m not in the chair anymore. Not entirely. Not alone. There’s the memory of a touch, large and callused, wrapping gently around my wrist. A voice—not speaking—but present. Low and quiet, like thunder just out of reach.

“I see you.”

I don’t know if he ever actually said the words, but they’re true. I feel them in my gut.

The heat in the pendant pulses again, and this time the sensation rolls outward. Like a circle drawn in ash around me. A ward. A tether. My thoughts slow. My heart doesn’t, but it steadies.

I can feel the part of me that knows Caziel. Not just his voice, or his hands, or the wicked way his mouth twists when I catch him off guard. But the weight of him. The steadiness. The silence beneath all his fire. I clutch the pendant tighter. And I swear, just for a second, I feel his fingers lacing through mine.

It’s not physical, just a memory, and it’s enough.

I lift my head. The woman across from me hasn’t moved. The pages still flutter in place. The quill dances in the air like it’s writing something I haven’t even said yet, but she’s watching me differently now. Like the trial felt the shift too. As if I didn’t answer with words—but the flame inside me did. It doesn’t roar or flare or even rise. It just… rests. Soft and quiet and patient. Waiting. Like it knows I’ll come back to myself eventually. Like it trusts me to choose.

I open my eyes. The room hasn’t changed. But the way I fit inside it has. The woman still watches me, pen paused mid-air. But there’s no pressure now. No looming question. Just space. And for the first time since stepping through the archway, I feel like I’m not being hunted. I’m being seen.

Maybe this trial isn’t about getting the answers right. Maybe it’s about remembering who I am when everything else is stripped away. I don’t have all the answers. No one should. There’s no one-size-fits-all option in in life. I brush my fingers over the pendant again, and a crooked smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Look at me, Kay Ward. Never had anyone in her corner, and now a man is throwing her lifelines.

“At least he’s pretty,” I mutter, more to the fire than the woman.

The air around us hums, amused.

“Would you rather be a savior, or a survivor?”

The hum under my skin deepens. It isn’t unpleasant—but it’s too much. I feel like a wire pulled too tight. I sit straighter. Try to steady my breath.

“Savior,” I say. But the word feels like a lie in my mouth.

No, not a lie—an echo.

The flame doesn’t stir. The woman doesn’t change. But I can feel the realm reacting. Not with fire or fury, but…disappointment? It’s like standing in front of someone who asks what your favorite color is, and you say red—even though it’s blue. Because red seems like the right answer. Because they’re wearing red. Because you think they’ll like you more. It makes my stomach twist.

The woman turns the page again.

“Would you rather forget pain, or remember joy?”

“Neither,” I say, almost before she finishes.

The quill stills. The light flickers. Her head lifts slightly, and this time, her eyes find mine with something like interest.