Page 41 of The Devil May Care

“Kay,” she says, voice low, “if you want to survive here, don’t wait for someone to give you permission.”

I nod, but as the door closes, I realize I’m tired of waiting for anything.

I cross to the window, push it open, and let the night air wash over me. Somewhere out there, the city pulses with life and danger and possibility. I press my palm to the stone, grounding myself.

I think of Sarai’s stories—of the Vesperan, the footnotes, the people who keep the world running but are never allowed to write their namesin the book of history. I think of the way she smiled, proud and sad all at once, when she said, “Footnotes last longer than headlines.”

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I don’t know if I’ll survive the next trial, or if the court will ever see me as more than a mistake. But I know this: I won’t let Sarai stand alone. I won’t let the Vesperan be erased, not if I can help it.

Tonight, I make a promise—not just to myself, but to Sarai, and to everyone like her who’s been forced into the margins. I will stand with them. I will listen, and I will remember. I will use whatever voice I have to make sure they are seen.

Let the court watch. Let them wonder. I’m not here to disappear. I’m here to stand with Sarai—and with anyone who’s ever been told they don’t belong.

Tonight, I promise,I will not let them stand alone.

CHAPTER TEN

KAY

I’ve never walked so slowly in my life. The halls leading to the court stretch longer than they should. Every surface gleams. The floors pulse faintly with some kind of magic I can’t name. The columns are carved with flame that seems to move if I look too long. I want to stop. I want to bolt. But my feet keep moving because there’s nowhere else to go. The chamber doors open before we reach them. Parting without sound—tall as towers, etched in gold and obsidian—and what lies beyond them is not a room. It’s a world.

The court of Crimson is overwhelming. It doesn’t look like a throne room. It looks like an opera house sculpted by a god on a fever high. Tiered rows of Daemari rise in circles, encircling a central platform like the eye of a storm. No walls—just archways and soaring columns, open to firelight and shadow.

Everything glows. Even the stone. Especially the people. There are dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Some robed. Some armored. Some dripping jewels like blood. All of them watching. I don’t mean that poetically. I mean all of them. The moment I step past the threshold, every head turns. Every gaze lands. And I’m seen.

Not understood. Not welcomed. Examined. Measured. Noted.

I hate it.

A woman guides me down a stair carved from molten-colored marble and gestures to the center platform ringed in gold. I step over the gilded edge, my knees feel like Jello, and glance around, trying topretend I’m not in the middle of some makeshift stage. There’s a basin there—shallow, wide, flickering with golden flame. It casts no heat. But I feel it anyway. Thirteen seats circle it. Twelve are filled. The thirteenth is waiting.

For whom? Not for me, surely. I don’t have a mark. How many times are we going to go over that tiny detail.

I step onto the platform. It’s not high, but it feels it exposed. Elevated like a stage. Like a warning. I keep my shoulders back. Chin up. The dress feels too scratchy. My skin feels too loud. The air hums like the room is listening. I glance at the fire in the center. It moves strangely. Pulsing like it’s taking deep breaths. Like it knows I’m here. It’s insane, but so is everything else. Maybe this is just the new normal. I breathe through the tightness in my chest and plant my feet. I will not flinch.

For a moment, I want to shrink. To disappear into the marble. But then I remember Sarai’s words—don’t wait for permission. I force my shoulders back, chin up, and let the fear burn into something sharper. If I’m going to be a spectacle, I’ll be my own. My skin prickles under a hundred stares. I want to run, but I plant my feet. I’m here. I’m not leaving. Let them look.

My heart is trying to escape through my ribs. Not metaphorically. It feels like it’s clawing upward, pounding against bone like it could break free and sprint for the exit on its own. I don’t blame it. There are too many people. Too many eyes. Too many expressions like I’m an insect that crawled across the wrong banquet table. If I feel safe, it’s only because I haven’t yet caught the shadow of the goblet poised to crush me under it’s heavy base.

My breath catches, tight and high in my throat. I hate this. I hate being stared at. Always have. I hated the school talent shows and conference introductions and every time someone said, “Just say a few words.” This is worse.

These aren’t curious strangers. They’re nobles. Soldiers. Daemari. They look like they’ve trained their whole lives to spot weakness and I’m currently wearing a red dress and a target on my back. I close my eyes, just for a second, and focus on my feet. On the way they connect with the stone. Cold. Solid. I breathe in through my nose. Out through my mouth. Again. Slower.

Let the thoughts come. Let them go.

My heartbeat doesn’t slow, not yet. But it gets quieter. More contained. The cold sweat across my skin begins to retreat. Something warm blooms in my chest, spreading outward down my arms, into my fingertips. My legs stop trembling, and I realize I am still here. They don’t know me. They don’t know my name or my history or what I gave up just to survive this long. They see a girl. Maybe a mistake. Maybe a toy. Maybe something to test or tame or toss aside. A human.

But that’s their problem. Not mine. If they want me to cower, to crumble under their gaze like some skittish lamb, they picked the wrong girl. I may be human. I may be lost. But I am still someone. I open my eyes, lift my chin, and meet their stares with everything they don’t expect.

“You’re smaller than I expected.”

The voice comes from the opposite side of the flame basin. Smooth. Drawling. Loud enough to carry. It belongs to a man lounging across one of the thirteen chairs like it was built for his spine alone. He’s beautiful like a hurricane or a tornado. Symmetrical, sharp, and clearly here to ruin something. Likely me.

Gold-threaded coat, white, blonde hair buzzed close along his scalp, shorter than any of the other men I’ve met here—but still taller than me—and the kind of smug smile that makes me want to set something on fire. Preferably him.

He lifts a gloved hand and gestures at me like I’m part of the decor. “Though I suppose the human shape always looks more fragile up close.”

My mouth twitches. I could ignore him. I really could. But I’m tired and I’ve had five cups of fire tea instead of caffeine.