Page 222 of The Devil May Care

I blink at the fabric, then at her. “Please tell me this isn’t another surprise trial.”

Sarai snorts. “No. Nothing that dramatic. But he needed and extra set of hands for something and I jumped at the chance.”

I cross my arms. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Her expression flickers, softening. “I wanted to.” I blink again, thrown by the quiet conviction in her voice and she steps closer, pressing the fabric bundle into my arms. “You think I’m here because I’m Vesperan, because I’m used to helping others while trying not to take up space. But I’m here because I chose to be. I like seeing you like this—alive. Ready. Stubborn as all hell.” My throat goes tight. “And ifhe’s planning what I think he’s planning,” she adds, “then you deserve to be dressed for it.”

I frown. “That makes it sound like I’m being led to the gallows.”

“Would I give you gold stitching for a gallows walk?”

I glance down at the fabric in my hands. “Maybe. You’ve got a dramatic streak.”

She grins. “I’m flattered.”

A beat passes between us, warm and solid.

I gesture vaguely. “This feels like something important.”

Sarai nods. “It is. But not because of a title or a flame or a throne. It’s important because it’s yours.”

I look at the clothing again. Then at her.

“Okay,” I whisper. “But I swear to the damn Flame if you try to braid my hair, I’m kicking you into a lava pit. My scalp needs to breathe.”

Sarai’s grin widens. “I’d like to see you try.”

The room she leads me into is low-lit and quiet, a dome of warm stone and woven glass that filters the flame light into deep crimsons and soft ambers. It smells like something floral and sharp—like citrus cut with smoke. A breeze stirs the sheer curtain by the door, and for a moment, I almost forget this place is built from ash and fire. It feels… peaceful.

I cross my arms. “Okay. What am I being dressed for? And don’t say a sacrifice. I’ve had a long day.”

Sarai smirks and sets a bundle down on a velvet bench. “If I wanted to sacrifice you, I’d brush your hair first. The curls get everywhere.”

I make a face, but it breaks into a laugh. “Seriously. I’m not letting you wait on me like some handmaid.”

“You’re not. I’m here for you,” She steps behind a lacquered screen and emerges with a basin of water and cloths. “and I’m his friend, too, Kay. I volunteered. You deserve to feel like yourself before this.”

The implication makes something in my chest tighten. “Before what?”

She just gives me that maddening, knowing look and holds up the garment. It’s simple at first glance, until the flame catches it. Then the thread gleams like molten lava—copper, garnet, gold. An outer robe is draped across her arms, sheer and black, etched with obsidian runes I can’t quite read.

I hesitate. “I don’t look like someone who belongs in that.”

Sarai’s voice softens. “That’s exactly why you do.”

She helps me out of my tunic and into the inner layer. It’s cool at first, then warm, like it remembers the heat of the forge it came from. The collar dips low, the waist drawn in with a woven sash of crimson and smoke-grey. The fabric brushes against my skin like a promise I don’t understand.

As she fastens the outer robe at my shoulders, I glance at the mirror propped in the corner. For a second, I don’t recognize the woman there. Then I do. And I smile.

“You look like fire held together by willpower,” Sarai says with a grin. “Like someone the flame couldn’t burn, so it let you wear it instead.”

“Is that a compliment in Crimson?”

“It is when I say it.” She moves to the table and dips her fingers into a small ceramic bowl, swirling something the color of fresh blood mixed with ash. “This isn’t a spell,” she says, holding the pigment. “It’s for memory.”

“For me to remember?”

“For you toberemembered.”