Page 59 of The Devil May Care

I twist my hair back and try for a loose braid. It’s not perfect, but it’s out of my face. A memory surfaces of Sarai offering to help yesterday, gentle fingers tugging and tucking the strands into an intricate twist. I push it away before it can form into longing. I study myself in the shifting mirror on the wall. The reflection adjusts with my thoughts—slightly clearer now, less warped than yesterday. I look tired. Pale. But I still look like me. That’s something.

“Okay,” I tell my reflection. “You’ve survived a fire , a ring fight, and demon politics. Time to go flirt with a man who probably bench-presses stone statues and has zero sense of humor.” I pause. “Just another Tuesday.”

My voice sounds steadier than I feel, and I take that as a good sign.

Today, I train with Caziel. The Ember Heir. The man who promised I wouldn’t be alone.

I still don’t know what that promise means, don’t know if it can mean anything at all, but it’s better than nothing. Better than running incircles with my fists up and my eyes closed. I square my shoulders, turn toward the door, and take my first real step into the day. Let the demon prince do his worst.

He has me meet him in a smaller room than the day before. There’s no crowd, no arena energy, no flame-eyed onlookers whispering about how many ways I’ll die before the first trial. Just stone and silence and Caziel, already waiting in the center of the ring. He doesn’t pace. He stands still, arms clasped behind his back, posture carved from discipline. His coat—long, high-collared, severe—is gone. Today it’s a black tunic, fitted across his shoulders and sleeveless.

It shouldn’t matter.

It absolutely does.

I stop just inside the doorway, suddenly very aware of how clunky I feel in my borrowed clothes. My boots squeak on the stone and Caziel turns. He watches me with the same unnerving stillness as yesterday—like he’s observing a puzzle, not a person.

“Good,” he says. “You’re early.”

I blink. I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before. Ever. I’m always running into the clinic at the last possible second while trying to pull up my hair and slurp down a coffee at the same time.

“Not gonna lie,” I say as I approach. “I half expected this to be another magical test where I get launched into a lava pit or have to duel a talking skeleton or something.”

“No skeletons today,” he replies, completely serious.

“Good to know there’s a schedule.”

I stop about ten feet from him. Not too close, but not so far away that I seem afraid. Caziel studies me for a long, quiet moment. Then he gestures to the polished rack beside him, where a dozen training weapons rest in orderly display. I recognize swords, spears, curved knives, and two things that look like angry gardening tools, but several I’ve never seen and cant even begin to guess how they’re used.

“Choose one.”

I stare at the rack. Then at him. Then back again.

“I feel like this is a trick question.”

“It isn’t.”

“Because no offense, but your realm seems really into trickquestions. And I’d really like to wait until after lunch to walk face-first into one.”

His mouth almost twitches. Almost.

I walk over and skim my fingers along the hilts. Most are too heavy, too long, too aggressive-looking. I eventually settle on a short, narrow-bladed dagger with a curved edge and a ridged grip. It feels… manageable. Like I might be able to hold it without slicing off my own foot. For a few minutes at least. If I don’t have to do anything else with it.

I turn back. “Points for style?”

Caziel doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps toward me and I tense. I don’t think he’ll hurt me, but because something about his presence is just so solid. He takes up more space than he should. Like gravity humors him out of respect. He stops in front of me, and with no warning, reaches out. My breath catches, but his hand doesn’t touch me. It hovers near my arm. Then my elbow. My hip. Correcting posture without ever making contact.

“You’re bracing with your wrist,” he murmurs. “That will weaken your strike.”

“Didn’t realize I had a strike yet.”

“If you didn’t, I wouldn’t be training you.”

His voice is quiet, even, but something in it hums against my ribs. He circles behind me and I try not to shift. Try not to flinch when his voice comes low over my shoulder.

“Footwork first. You fight with your whole body, or not at all.”

“Cool. I’ve always wanted to be a deadly interpretive dancer.”