Page 42 of The Devil May Care

So, I tilt my head, innocent. “That’s weird. You look exactly like I imagined.”

The murmur that ripples through the crowd is barely audible—but I hear it. A few people blink. One outright chuckles.

Blondie raises a brow. “You’re bold for a creature with no lineage.”

“Oh, I have a lineage,” I say sweetly. “Mostly anxiety and bad impulse control, but it’s strong.”

He leans forward now, his gaze sharpening. “You joke because you don’t understand. The Rite is not a play. It is fire made manifest. Those who stand in the circle burn. The weak, human or otherwise, do not walk away.”

I shrug, just a little. “Sounds like you’re nervous.”

That gets a louder ripple. He smiles, but it’s thinner now. I’m pretty sure I’ve just made my first enemy. Great. Another thing to add to the to-do list.

Around us, the room hushes. Not with fear, but with expectation. Every head turns toward the grand entrance above the amphitheater. A rustle. A few startled glances. One nervous breath. And there he is. Caziel. Not in armor. Not dressed for battle or display. Just dark clothing, clean lines, no excess—like the air around him decided to become formal. He walks slowly. Deliberately. The Ember Heir doesn’t rush. He enters like he owns the floor and doesn’t care if you know it. No entourage. No fanfare. Just presence.

The court reacts the way trees might react to a wildfire in the distance—rooted, still, but bracing. I see it in the stiffened shoulders, the sudden silence, the way even the cruel ones don’t meet his eyes. He walks with the quiet confidence of someone who doesn’t need to prove anything. And the flame in the center of the court lifts, like it’s been waiting for him.

Like it’s turning toward him. Like it recognizes him. And maybe I do, too. Not fully. Not rationally, but something in my chest twists, and I suddenly feel very, very aware of how alone I’d been until now. My stomach twists. I don’t know what I expected. But it wasn’t for the entire realm to react like this.

Caz doesn’t look at the other contenders. He doesn’t look at the empty seat. He doesn’t even look at the flame. He looks at me. Not for long, but it lands like a weight. Not heavy. Not cruel. Real.

His eyes are cool and unreadable, but I can feel something underneath. Not surprise. Not anger. Something closer to recognition. Like he’s relieved I’m still standing. Like he’s surprised that it matters.

I don’t know what to do. Do I nod? Do I speak? Do I look away? I hold his gaze, just for a beat longer than I probably should, and hope my face isn’t doing anything stupid. Then he breaks the contact and steps aside—not toward the platform, not toward the throne-like chairs circling the flame. He stays in the periphery. Close enough to be seen. Far enough to avoid commitment.

The court doesn’t breathe. Neither do I. My heart, which had finally settled down, starts up again. A pounding rhythm slamming agonist myribs. Not in fear. In anticipation. I hate that because I don’t know what’s happening, but I do know this: the game just changed. And I’m no longer the only piece out of place.

A figure steps onto the platform. Robes like living ember, gold ink running down their arms like molten veins. A ceremonial staff rests lightly in one hand, more scepter than weapon, and their voice carries like smoke—soft, curling, impossible to ignore.

“Let the court record the moment,” they say.

No name. No introduction. Just authority.

“The Emberbrand stirs.”

The ripple through the court is immediate. Controlled, yes, but tangible. Like someone opened a window mid-storm. I straighten. My spine aches. It doesn’t feel like a beginning. It feels like a sentence. A punishment.

“The Brand,” the speaker continues, “has begun to call its chosen.” They raise a hand toward the ring of thirteen seats—twelve filled, one empty. “The contenders have been named. Most. Not all.”

A beat of silence. The flame in the basin dances higher for just a moment, golden-red and flickering. I stare at it, feeling the heat slide deep under my skin. Somewhere, at the edge of the room, Caziel shifts. Not much. Just rocking his weight from one foot to the. Other. A moment of stillness breaking. But I feel it like a slap. My stomach drops. Was that seat meant for him? Is it meant for me? Did I just accidentally trip into someone’s apocalypse audition?

The speaker continues. “The Rite has not begun. Not yet. But the contenders shall begin their training. They will be tested. Tempered. Watched. Until the final mark appears—when the circle is complete, and the fire rises.”

They don’t say what kind of training. They don’t say who oversees it. And they don’t say what happens if one of the contenders fails before the Rite even starts. I glance at the empty seat. Then at the others. The contenders.

They each look different. Some robed, some armored, some dressed in style I’d call haute gothic gladiator. One is all bone-white silk and jagged jewelry. One wears flameproof leathers and leans forward like they’re already planning who to kill first.

There are six men, five women, and one figure I can’t even begin todescribe. And they’re all terrifying in their own way. Not just powerful. Prepared. Like they knew this was coming. Like they’ve been waiting. Every contender— even the one half-hidden behind their hood—has the same mark. Deep red lines circling their wrists and forearms, crossing like molten threads beneath the skin. The Emberbrand. From the corner of my eye, it seems to move when they do, catching the light like something alive, but when I look again each is static. A tattoo or birthmark. That must be what they keep talking about. The Emberbrand.

Caziel doesn’t have one. Not that I’ve see, although maybe it’s under his glamor. His skin is bare. No mark. No brand. And I certainly don’t have one either. I glance down at my hand to check. Nope. Just pale skin, the hint of my paw print tattoos disappearing under the cuff my sleeve. A human in a borrowed dress with bed hair disguised as defiance. Trying not to pass out in front of a magical bloodsports' tribunal.

The speaker’s gaze skims the group, then—very deliberately—lands on me. Neither long, nor warm. Just enough for the message to settle. I am part of this. Or at least, they’ve decided I might be. My stomach knots. Training? Me? What does that even mean? Sword fighting? Flame dancing? Advanced brooding? Is this seriously…. Is this the goddamn Hunger Games?!

I force my shoulders back. Let them see a girl with nothing to lose. Let them misunderstand me. Because if I’m being honest—I’m panicking. Behind the stillness, beneath the bravado, I don’t belong here. Not with these people. Not in this circle.

I’m a former foster kid. A vet tech with clinical depression, student debt, and a cat with separation anxiety. Not to mention a boatload of trauma. I don’t need more in the form of a mythical gladiator fight. I didn’t sign up for this. I didn’t ask to stand in a ring of magical warlords and hope my human squish-brain doesn’t get me incinerated.

But I can’t look weak. Not now. I tilt my head, smirk just enough.