Page 57 of The Devil May Care

I shake my head.

“A strumpet, hussy, or harridan? Floozy? Harlot?” She purses herlips. “I’m running out of synonyms that you might have heard of. “A whore? She sleeps with a lot of people?”

Oh. Oh!

“And it’s a bad thing in your world?”

“It’s often used as an insult, especially when men say it about women, but I personally don’t see anything wrong with owning one’s sexuality and desires. Sex is fun. When between two consenting adults, I don’t see why it needs to be anyone else’ business.”

“I concur. It was not intended as an insult. I have no…awareness of your,” I swallow, “Sexual desires.”

“That’s good to know, Caz.” Her laugh twists something in my gut. “I find it hard to believe you can be a… how old are you?” She waves her own question away as I open my mouth to answer. “Doesn’t matter, you’re clearly a full-grown version. I find it hard to believe your society wouldn’t have some kind of pathological insult about sex. Doesn’t every culture? I imagine a world built on desire would have several. Lumestra. That’s a word I heard today from some of the other contenders. That’s whore, right? Or some similar kind of insult?”

The blood boils in my veins and I can feel my hold on my glamor flicker.

“You mistake the word. A Lumestra is no insult. They are flame-bearers—revered, not reviled. Their art is to remind us that passion is sacred, that desire shapes creation as much as steel and stone. To stand in their presence is to be reminded that fire is more than war. They do not cheapen themselves when they share their bodies. They refine us.”

“So not an insult?”

“Call someone a Lumestra and you name her dangerous, revered, untouchable.”

“And if I want to insult?” Her teeth sink into her lower lip.

“You can use the term veythar,” I tell her, “It’s not just physical desires, they’re something else entirely. A veythar is hollowed, greedy. Chasing down every whim until even their hunger taste of ash. A veythar takes and takes without grace. Without gratitude. They squander the flame until nothing remains but smoke.”

“Are they gender specific?” Kay asks and I frown.

“Why would they be? The Lumestra honors the Flame and ishonored in return. The veythar gorges on it until they are consumed. Both are actions that can be undertaken by any.”

“Help me,” she says. The words are soft, but solid. “You’re the Ember Heir, right? You know this place. You’ve survived it. You know him.” She means my father. “The guy they’re all trying to unseat.”

I brace myself. Now comes the ask.

Take my place.

Burn for me.

Die in my stead.

It’s what anyone would do. Anyone raised in a world where survival is traded for favor. But instead, she surprises me. Again.

“I’m sorry,” she says. I blink. She’s looking at me with eyes full of regret. “I didn’t mean to take it from you. The spot. Or whatever this was supposed to be.”

My jaw tightens. She keeps going.

“If you want it back, if there’s a way to fix that—I’ll do what you tell me. I’ll step aside.”

My chest goes still.

“I don’t want to fight you,” she adds. “Or be the reason you lose something that mattered.”

I don’t speak. I’m still waiting for the catch and because the ache beneath my ribs is too unfamiliar to name.

“But if you’re not going to take it…” she swallows, “will you teach me?”

The words land like a blow to the sternum. She looks up, eyes searching mine.

“Please. Don’t let me go into this blind. I don’t need to win. I don’t care about thrones or power or realms made of fire and glass. I just want to walk away from this when it’s over and that last conversation just made me painfully aware that I’m very much out of my depth.”