Page 32 of The Devil May Care

Stir the Rite? This is how they will rewrite the history? The Rite of Ascension was already rising, the flame had already marked several contenders, no connection to Kay. Not unless they want to argue that the Emberbrand’s appearance made our borders weaker, pierced the veil over the wastelands. They won’t. They’d have to follow that argument to the conclusion that the Flame is not powerful enough to call the Riteandalso protect. It flies in the very face of their own belief, but I do not like the way they are tying her breach to the Rise. What do they stand to gain from lashing her to the Trials?

“To protect her?” someone scoffs. “You would shield a trespasser over your own?”

“I would not sacrifice a lamb to see if it bleats,” I say, and I will not be complicit letting others do so either.

Silence again.

Then—predictably—laughter from one corner. Cold. Thin.

“And what, then, would you have us do?” Erenath presses. “The Brand is calling. The Rite must rise. If not forged, she will fester. What is your solution, Ember Heir?”

I hate that title. I always have. I consider how to answer. Weighing strategy. Treading carefully.

“One more mark must rise before the rite can begin,” I say, the words like ash on my tongue.

“Are we at all concerned one will not?” Another elder asks. “That she has blocked or stolen it?”

“There is no evidence of that.” I stare Erenath down, daring him to refute me, but he does not. Neither does he cower. Pity.

“There’s no evidence of anything. We need to protect Crimson first.”

He means Daemari. He would let all others burn without a second thought. And he forgets, she’s not unkindled. The flame has given its own form of approval. That should be enough for most. It would have been before the Cobalt wars.

“Are you so quick to fear that which has not harmed you?” I let my glamour pulse, showing the sharp press of my teeth and the dark depths of my eyes. Erenath doesn’t pull back, but the color bleeds from his face. “We are Daemari. Born of flame and desire. We are not so easily cowed. She has been recognized by the Flame. That should be enough to assuage your fears. Or do we truly believe the Flame would mark one meant to hurt our people?”

I’m lying through my teeth. I wonder if the council knows it too.

“But she isn’t marked, Ember Heir.” Erenath’s smile is oily. I clench my fists, clawing my rage back under control. “The Flame reacts, she is kindled, but all we know is that she is strong enough to sway the Flame.We do not know for sure that she is safe. She could be something we’ve never seen before.”

The snarl slips out before I can claw it back. I don’t like showing that they get to me, but the deferential nod I get from Erenath soothes my nicked pride. It is Solonar who draws attention back to other court matters. I tune them all out, letting the rage simmer away to nothing in my bloodstream. My thoughts are fire. They would have sacrificed her. Without hesitation. Without Flame. Without knowing a single thing beyond the fact that she arrived where she should not be. And I, fool that I am, promised her she would not be served up to appease the fear of the unknown.

I should have known better. The Ember Heir, the only child of the Asmodeus. Crowned in prophecy. Named heir before I was old enough to know what it cost. I was expected to take the mark, so I did. Too young. Now I’m expected to take the mantle, and rule Crimson when my father’s time is spent. No.

I once believed refusing the crown would be enough. That denying the flame would weaken my father’s grip. That if I left the game, the board would crumble beneath him. I was wrong. He found other ways to hold on. Other puppets to lift. Other lives to spend.

Like Isaeth.

I taste her name in the back of my throat and hate that it still burns. She was never part of the plan. Not his, at least. She was clever. Gentle. She wanted to remake the world—not rule it. She never bowed. Never begged. She healed people who did not know they were broken. She gave her all for this realm, for its people, even when they shut her out to the fringes of society, even as they deemed her less. And when war came, my father saw her as a pawn to be used, and kept it from me because to him, her life was worth less than his vision of a future with me on the throne. Because to him, love is weakness. Because to him, power is all that matters.

And for a time, I believed that denying him what he wanted would be punishment enough.

But today—

Today I saw the truth. He is not the only one who would burn Crimson to ash if it suited him. There are others now who have taken up his cause. Whispers turned wildfire. Some want to test the girl.Others want to use her. None care what she wants. None seeher. Just like they never saw Isaeth. Just like they never saw anything beyond what they could possess, control, ignite.

They think the Flame is power. They are wrong.

The Flame is desire. It is want. Need. Not the kind that climbs toward thrones or devours the world for glory. Real magic—the old kind, the kind that makes realms rise—is found in what we burn for.

What we fight to heal. To protect. To build.

What we love.

There is no magic in conquest. Only hunger. Only rot.

I buried my wants to keep the flame from rising. I told myself it was noble. Necessary. But it was cowardice. Silence does not save anyone. It only lets the wrong ones speak louder and I will not let her be sacrificed. Not for the Rite. Not for the Daemari. Not for my father or even for Crimson. Not this time.

I find my old friend in the emberlit corridor just beyond the southern gallery after the crowds disperse. He stands where the flame runs low, and shadows gather in the grooves of the carved stone like dust that remembers too much. He does not look up as I approach.