Page 72 of The Devil May Care

“Caziel.”

His name settles the air again and he finally glances my way. Still careful. Still distant.

“I was the one who reached out,” I say. He studies me. Silent. “You might be the only thing in this world that feels real.”

His shoulders drop, just slightly. And I know, deep down, that it’s not me he’s trying to protect. It’s himself. Whatever he’s held together this long, it’s more fragile than it looks.

“I should go,” he says softly. And this time, I don’t stop him.

He stands. I rise too, folding my arms to keep from reaching out again. Caz moves toward the door with purpose, but pauses with his hand on the frame.

“I’ll bring more books tomorrow,” he says without turning.

“Bring yourself too,” I reply. Quiet. Not a plea, but not a joke either.

He doesn’t answer. Just nods once and slips out into the hall. I stand there for a long time after the door shuts, my hand still tingling from his. Some part of me wants to be embarrassed. Wants to curl into the old self-protection habits. But I don’t. Because for a heartbeat, he let the flame show. And I’m not sorry for reaching for it.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

KAY

The training hall is empty when I arrive.

Light slants through the arched windows in strips, painting the stone floor in fractured amber. It’s quiet in a way that doesn’t feel peaceful—more like the room is holding its breath. I know the feeling.

My legs ache, my wrist is still sore from yesterday’s too-ambitious parry, and I didn’t sleep much. I’ve been dreaming again. Not nightmares—just loud things. Fire. Teeth. That look in Caziel’s eyes when he told me he didn’t want the throne. I shake it off. Or try to.

He’s already there when I round the corner. Standing near the far edge of the room in his usual dark training gear, hair pushed back, expression unreadable. There’s something wrapped in dark cloth on the bench beside him. My brain, traitorous and sleep-deprived, immediately thinks: gift? Which is obviously dumb.

“Morning,” I say, managing not to sound too breathless.

“It’s yours.” He doesn’t waste time, nodding toward the object beside him.

I step closer. The cloth is soft. Some kind of charcoal-toned velvet, worn but clean. It’s tied in two places with black cord. I glance at him before touching it. He says nothing—just watches me. I kneel and undo the cord, carefully unwrap the bundle and stare.

It’s a sword.

No—more precise than that. A short blade thelength of my forearm, with a thin, double-edged design and a curved hilt that molds instinctively to my palm the moment I pick it up. The metal is dark, almost black, but when the light hits it, I see a faint shimmer—red-gold, like embers sleeping beneath the surface. A few characters—runes?—run down the center of the blade, etched so fine they almost disappear. I can’t read them but I feel like I’ve seen them before. When I touch the first one, it glows faintly beneath my thumb and the metal seems to heat.

“You had this made?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Caziel nods once. “The Daemari blades are too heavy. Too long for your reach. I had this forged for you.”

My throat goes tight. I don’t know what I expected—but it wasn’t this. Not something so perfect. Not something made for me—not borrowed, not adjusted, not improvised—but crafted. My first instinct is to joke. To make it light. I lift the sword slightly and give a half-smile.

“If this is your idea of flirting, it’s working.”

Something shifts at the corner of his mouth. Not a full smile, but a dent in the armor.

“It’s not,” he says evenly. “It’s survival.”

“Ouch,” I mutter, but the blade feels too good in my hand to mean it. “Spare my feelings, why don’t you.”

I roll my wrist, test the balance. It sings along my palm. My fingers curve against the hilt like they belong there. Like this is what it’s been waiting for.Like maybe I’m not doomed after all. Caziel watches me closely.

“I can flirt if you’d like. Try the stance I showed you yesterday.”

I obey before I think, sliding into the ready position. The weapon moves with me like breath. It doesn’t fight me the way the others did. It doesn’t weigh down my arm or throw me off balance. It feels like an extension of my body. I turn and strike, fluid. The blade whistles through the air, clean, sharp, perfect. I blink at it. At him.