Page 48 of The Devil May Care

“You haven’t been officially called. Not yet. But it doesn’t matter. They’re going to treat you like you have a brand.” She must read the question on my shocked face. “They’ll want to test you. To shame you. Or to see what you’ll do when the time comes.”

“And if I refuse?”

That wipes the humor away completely. She doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her voice is thin.

“There is dishonor in stepping down.”

“Dishonor I can handle.”

She meets my gaze. Something hard flickering under the surface.

“You don’t understand. Here, in Crimson, quitting is seen as betrayal. To the flame. To the realm. To the Rite itself.”

“But it’s not quitting if i’m not actually picked, right? And I’m not Daemari, can’t we explain it away as a translating error? A cultural difference?”

“Maybe. Or they can tell Crimson that it’s the flame who will decide your fate. No one would question it. The flame didn’t choose you to compete, but the flame can decide if you’re worthy.”

“Of survival?”

Sarai nods. “Saying no would be an insult.”

“To the flame?”

Her silence confirms everything I need to know. It’s not the kind of silence that hides something small. It’s the kind that wraps its hands around your mouth and tells you to pretend. I don’t look away. And neither does she.

I step closer. Voice low.

“What happens to the ones who quit?”

Sarai’s throat moves, but no sound comes out at first.

“There are consequences.”

“For quitting?”

“For defying the Flame. The rite.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She turns toward the window again, like the view will save her. “They say the flame demands strength. But it’s the realm that punishes weakness.”

“Who?” I hear the tightness in my own voice. “The Council? The Sovereign?”

Sarai doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. I can read the silence now. I’ve been around enough systems built on politeness and performance and plausible deniability. Just because something isn’t named, doesn’t stop it from being true.

“You mean the people,” I murmur.

Still no reply, but her posture crumples. Just a little.

“You said it’s not a fight to the death,” I whisper. “That people don’t have to die in the Rite.”

“They don’t,” she says quickly.

“But they do.”

Her hands tighten at her sides.

I press on. “And the ones who leave—who walk away—they’re punished.”