Page 38 of The Devil May Care

This time it is Sarai that frowns. “It is but a story, Kay. There is still war. Pain. Suffering. There are still those left out of the teachings as if they don’t exist at all. Those the flame has forgotten.”

“But how? If the Flame is all knowing, if it is the Flame that nominates the next ruler, how can it forget people that exist?”

She shrugs and my stomach drops. How could I have been that blind?

“Where do your people fit into the story, Sarai? If you cannot be marked by the flame, what happens during the Rite? If the Daemari are the ones pulling the threads, what about… you?”

Sarai’s hands still on the linens.

“We don’t. Not really. We’re the ones who cook the meals and clean the blood off the arena floor. The footnotes at the bottom of history. You need magic, threads, to complete the trial, to rule Crimson.” Her smile is biting, but not bitter. “But footnotes last longer than headlines. So maybe we’ll win in the end.”

I sit with that for a minute. The fire crackles gently in the wall sconce, casting red-gold shadows across Sarai’s face. She looks back at me like the story meant nothing, like she just explained a recipe or why the towels are folded into triangles. But I see it. In the way her shoulders have gone still. The way she watches me now—not guarded, not open—waiting. Like she’s used to her words landing wrong. Like she’s waitingfor me to do what others always do: ignore the footnote. Draw a line in permanent marker. Redact. Erase.

I lift the mug of fire tea and take another sip. Still terrible but I don’t wince.

“Okay. So, you’ve got gods made of emotions, a political system run by vibes, and a flame that plays favorites.”

Sarai snorts. “More or less.”

“And the way to fix things is…?”

“Complicated. Bloody. Unlikely.”

“Oh good. Just like home.”

She doesn’t smile this time. But the tension around her eyes softens.

“I mean it,” I say. “We don’t have fire gods or Ember hellcats or surrealist architecture, but the whole ‘built on suffering, maintained through denial’ thing? Pretty universal.”

She tilts her head. “And where do you fall in your world’s story?”

I pause. Think.

“Somewhere between disillusioned background character and exhausted girl in the audience screaming, ‘What the hell is this plotline?’”

That earns a small laugh. Quiet. Almost unwilling.

“I’m a woman. I’m simultaneously never in power because that would be men controlling everything, and I’m still privileged simply based on the color of my skin. I try to do the best I can until I learn better, I try to listen to those who have systemically been denied agency and freedom. I want to do something, but I don’t know what. It takes unity, collaboration, teamwork to enact change and time. Education. Honesty. And around all that I still have to go to work, scrub my bathroom, remember to wash my hair and make my own doctor’s appointments. I’m constantly angry that I’m not doing more and also feel like I’m drowning under the weight of what I’m juggling, and Iknowso many people have it worse than me.”

“Worse than falling through dimensions and landing in Hell?” Sarai raises one curved brow.

“You know what I mean.” I pause. “I think.”

Sarai leans back in the chair, watching me like I’m a puzzle with too many corners.

“You’re different than I expected,” she says.

I shrug. “That’s how I feel about most of the people I’ve met here.”

She doesn’t argue. “Most would’ve asked more questions about the Sovereigns. About the flame. About power. How to survive, seize, and wield it.”

“Yeah, well…” I drain the rest of my tea. “You said you don’t get to be in the story. That was the part that mattered to me. I want no part in something rigged.” Silence settles between us. Not awkward. Real. Like something unsaid has been acknowledged. Then I add, “Also, I figure if I need a crash course in magical hierarchy, someone will eventually throw me into an arena and shout the rules from a balcony. If this is real, then I doubt knowing much will help.”

She raises a brow.

I grin. “I read fantasy novels. I know how this goes.” When she frowns, I clarify, “books.” I pantomime flipping pages. This time, Sarai does smile. Full. Bright.

“Try not to die in the first chapter.”