Page 6 of The Devil May Care

I feel no heat from the Flame Crown now. It knows I have turned from it. The flame remembers who burned for it—and who it devoured for sport.

The Elders pretend to study their scrolls. House Kirel murmurs to House Orenn. The youngest of them—newly ascended, eager for favor—stares at me like a question waiting to be answered. I ignore them. They are waiting for me to speak. I will not indulge them. It is not I who the summoned court.

Eventually, my father will arrive, theatrical as always. And I will remind him, in front of his precious council, that I will not participate. I will not bend to tradition. The throne may find another heir—one more willing to spill blood for vanity.

Crimson may hunger, but it no longer feeds on me.

Let them whisper. Let the mark rise on every brow but mine. I will never kneel to a realm that forgets its dead.

My father arrives in silence. No fanfare. No announced entrance. Just the flicker of the braziers along the throne path shifting as if even the fire is trained to turn toward him. This time, they seem to bow as he passes. My father does not walk. He glides—or so the poets say—though I know better. He controls. Every breath, every step, every angle of his presence is curated to command.

He ascends the dais without hurry. The throne greets him without protest. The room bows to their Asmodeus. I do not.

“Caziel,” he says, his voice smooth as pressed velvet. “You grace us.”

The court pretends this is not a game. That his greeting is not laced with the expectation that I will now apologize for my absence from governance, from ritual, from tradition. I offer none.

“You summoned me,” I say.

He smiles, a small flick of the corner of his mouth. Not warm. Calculated. “Indeed. The realm stirs. The Emberbrand rises.” A pause. “Do you feel it?”

I do. We both know I do. But I do not answer. To admit I feel the pull would be to validate his hope. Or worse, his plan.

“The mark has appeared on twelve now,” he continues. “Including three of noble blood. Crimson prepares.” Crimson is always preparing. That is its rot. “Only one remains unmarked.” And he believes it should be me.

“It will not be me,” I say simply.

A beat passes.

His eyes narrow, just enough. “You still deny the flame.”

“I do not deny it. I am not marked. There is a difference.”

“And if it appears?”

“I have no interest in playing host to a throne that devours its own.”

A few murmurs ripple through the chamber. The word devours is one I have used before. It unsettles the elders. They prefer gentler terms. Sacrifice. Duty. Succession.

My father steeples his fingers. “You are the rightful heir.”

“No,” I say. “I am what remains.”

That gets him. Just a flicker in the jaw. The truth tastes bitter, even to him. The Flame Crown above us flickers faintly. It reacts to want. Tohunger. To desire. My father ensured it would never call for me when he let Isaeth fall forgotten.

He follows my gaze. “You were born of it,” he says. “Bred for it. And whether you light the pyre or not, Crimson chooses. Not you.”

“The Flame chooses,” I correct. “And yet the brand does not rise for me.”

“Not yet.”

“I’ve told you. It never will.” Not anymore.

Silence blooms in the room like smoke. He stands to descend the dais. Slow, deliberate. One step at a time. A sovereign drawing close to his would-be successor.

“I know you still blame me,” he says, too softly for the others to hear. “For what happened during the siege.” My jaw clenches, but I do not turn away. “I did what was necessary to ensure the war was won. What you lost—what we lost—secured the realm.”

“She secured nothing,” I say. “She was discarded.” Forgotten. Her name left off the memorial stone.