Page 49 of The Devil May Care

A slow nod.

“Publicly?”

“Is it considered public if they just disappear?” Her voice is paper-thin. I swallow. “They call it justice,” she says after a long pause. “They say it’s the will of the flame. But the flame doesn’t ask for blood, people do. The powerful do. And they get it because few dare to say otherwise.”

My pulse thrums. All the false security I’ve been clinging to—gone in an instant.

No one is coming. Not to stop this. Not to protect me. If I say no, if I run, if I survive the flame only to walk away am I even guaranteed safety? If the lie is that the flame will decide my worth, my right to breathe the burnt air, then if I don’t walk out a winner, is that proof I don’t belong?

I’ve seen what happens to folks who don’t belong. I’ve seen what happens at the hands of those who preach kindness and fairness. Those who claim to be righteous and just. Safety is only guaranteed to those on they inside. Because it’s easier than reaching out. Because it’s what they’ve always done. Because someone told them it was the only way.

I sit down slowly on the edge of the bed, hands gripping the mattress. Sarai watches me, expression unreadable. But I can see it now, the line she must walk every day. She doesn’t live here. She survives. And I’m starting to realize those are not the same thing.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask quietly.

Sarai doesn’t speak for a long moment.

“I’m tired of watching people be fed to fire and told it’s a gift.”

Sarai’s words settle into the room like ash. I look down at my hands, fingers curled into the edge of the mattress, and something starts to ache in my chest. Not sharp, just deep. Like a bruise I didn’t know I had.Back home, I’ve spent years feeling like I didn’t belong anywhere. Like I was walking through a world that had rules I couldn’t read and expectations I never agreed to.

But at least the lines were visible. At least I knew the game was rigged.

There are systems in my world that claim to protect the vulnerable—laws, institutions, procedures. But they fail us every day. They’re built to favor the loudest, richest, whitest voices in the room. People fall through cracks big enough to swallow them whole and are told it’s their own fault they didn’t climb out. And when they try? They’re mocked. Shamed. Sometimes murdered. All because they were too Black, too queer, too poor, too neurodivergent, too “other.” We’ve carved lines in every direction—skin, gender, faith, language, trauma, history, shape, blood.

And then we wonder why we’re bleeding.

I used to think if I ever landed in one of those fantasy worlds I read about, maybe things would be different. That magic might mean progress. That higher powers would come with higher standards. I didn’t think it through. Didn’t think at all, really. Just followed the thread of wonder into a place where even fire has favorites.

Of course this ugliness would bleed into other realms. Why wouldn’t it? Oppression doesn’t belong to one species. Power always finds a way to protect itself. And people like Sarai—innocent, hardworking people—get burned in the name of tradition. The difference is maybe here I can see it clearly. Maybe now that I know, I can do something about it.

Even if it’s small. Even if it’s only to make sure someone else doesn’t go through what she has. Even if it’s just surviving long enough to spit in the face of whatever god set this place on fire.

I sit in the silence, still trying to piece together what the hell I’ve been dropped into, when something clicks in the back of my mind.

“Sarai,” I say slowly, “what happens to the winner?”

She looks up from smoothing the sheets.

“The winner of the Rite,” I clarify. “They keep saying they’ll ‘rise,’ but I don’t… what does that actually mean?”

For the first time in what feels like hours, she laughs. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. Just… surprised. A sound full of something between pity and awe.

“You really don’t know,” she says, almost like it’s a question.

I shake my head. Her smile is soft. And sad.

“They rule, Kay. The one who survives becomes the next Sovereign.”

Everything in me goes still. She turns back to her work like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just shift the ground beneath my feet. I stare at her for a long moment, then down at my hands. I’ve never ruled anything in my life. Hell, I barely keep my rent paid on time. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe ruling isn’t the same as surviving—but maybe it should be. No one’s asked me to change anything. No one’s handed me a sword and said burn it down. But something here is wrong. Twisted.

It’s the same back home. Too many lies calcified into law. Too many people like Sarai living with their heads down and their hearts locked away. Too many powerful beings calling themselves chosen while leaving others to rot. But it doesn’t have to be. I refuse to believe it’s the only way. And maybe, if this is real, and I’m about to be shoved into the Rite whether I want it or not, something good could come out of it.

I have no right to any of this. No claim to Crimson. No bloodline or prophecy or ancestral flame. But sometimes… all it takes is a single grain of sand to grind the whole machine to a halt.

Maybe there’s a reason I’m here. Maybe there’s some good I can do before I get skewered by a fire sword. Maybe I want to.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN