Page 53 of The Devil May Care

Not a threat.

But no longer invisible.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CAZIEL

The viewing room is carved into the upper wall of the training wing. It’s narrow, dim, and hot with old flame. No banners. No heralds. Just shadow and strategy. Private. Intentional. Only a few stand with us: five hand-picked elders, robed in red-gold and authority. Solonar. And my father—the Asmodeus. They lean against polished stone balustrades like bored gods. But they are more than watching. They’re taking notes. Calculating odds.

And the girl in the ring? She’s bleeding. Again.

She’s not daemari. Not marked. Not trained. But she is still standing. Still moving. A fact that is starting to concern them.

Solonar’s voice is low and composed. “She adapts more quickly than I expected, even fighting with her weak side.”

My father doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are narrowed, following her every movement. He is not scowling. He is calculating. And Solonar is wrong. The hand gripping the weapon might be opposite of the other contenders, but she isn’t weak there. It’s her dominant side. I’m sure of it.

“She’s erratic,” one elder mutters. “Unrefined. But she learns.”

Solonar smiles faintly. “That may be enough to earn the public’s curiosity, if not their favor.”

“Favor is not required. Intrigue will suffice.” My father speaks finally.

I stiffen, barely. Of all the outcomes I expected—the flame choosing her, her collapse in the ring, the council declaring her a liability—I hadnot considered this one. Interest. My father, the same man who holds more beings in quiet contempt than any person I know, is intrigued by her.

She pivots. Varo—a favored contender—moves in to finish the match, but she surprises him. Just slightly. Her blade slips across his thigh. The cut is shallow. But it bleeds. And the room goes very, very still.

“She’ll need proper training,” my father says. “If she’s to make it past the first trial.”

One of the elders hums. “You believe she should compete, then?”

“There are thirteen spaces,” my father replies. “We have filled twelve.”

He says nothing more, but the implication is clear. She may not be chosen by the flame. But we may choose her anyway.

I do not speak. Not yet. I do not allow my expression to shift, though my chest tightens by degrees. I had counted on his disdain. His prejudice. His cruelty. But this interest? It’s worse.

“What would you have us do with her, Caziel?” His voice cuts clean across the chamber.

All eyes shift to me. I turn slightly toward him. Not too quickly. Not enough to betray the panic clawing at the base of my throat.

“She has not been marked,” I say calmly. “But the flame is not always… punctual.” A few of the elders nod, as if that makes perfect sense. “I recommend she continue to train with the others. For now.” I say it to stall. To shield her even though she does not know she needs it. Solonar steps forward smoothly, his voice warm and unbothered.

“There is precedent for ceremony,” he says. “A symbolic competitor. One not intended to ascend, but to demonstrate allegiance.”

My father raises a brow. “To Crimson? Or to us?”

Solonar tilts his head. “Either would suffice. And it would reduce the risk of her… untimely removal.”

The subtext is razor-sharp. Let her stand. Let her fight. Let her lose in public, and with grace. And if she dies? It was never our fault.

I feel the heat building in my core. As if the flame stirs when I think of her. The way she stood back up. The way she didn’t ask for help. The way she looked when she thought no one saw her. My father hums under his breath.

“Perhaps.” He leans back in his seat now, his expression unreadable.

The elders murmur quietly among themselves. Solonar’s gaze flicks toward me, unreadable. And I know this is a game. One I’ve played before. One I’ve lost before. I cannot let her become their story. Their blood-slick pageantry. I take a step back from the balustrade.

“I’ll speak to her.”