Page 8 of The Devil May Care

“That is precisely what I thought,” he lies smoothly. “But the scholars are wary. She must remain under watch until we are certain she poses no risk. The Rite is sacred and can be delicate.”

I don’t roll my eyes but it’s a near miss. The Rite is sacred, sure, but it’s far from delicate. It cannot be both all knowing, all powerful, and in need of protection. I’m sure the scholars know this. Just as I’m sure my father played no role in the request that the human stay. This is his angle. I feel the trap before he springs it.

“I am assigning her to you,” he says.

There it is.

“No.”

“You will observe her. Question her. Ensure she does not destabilize the flame’s rise. Not at such a delicate time.”

Delicate. What a joke. They can’t have it both ways. Either the flame is fate, destiny, all knowing, or it’s vulnerable to outside influence. Both can’t be true, but no one says a word.

“I will not be used to vet your pet anomalies.”

My father steps closer, just enough for the court to feign deafness and still hear every syllable. “You have refused the Rite. You have withdrawn from all ceremonial duties. And yet, you still carry the name Draeth. If you are not heir, then you must at least be useful.”

House Draeth. I laugh once, without humor.

“And if she were dangerous?” I know his answer before he gives it.

“Crimson’s duty, the Flame’s duty, is to her people. Not outsiders.”

She would be dead. He would have seen to it himself.

“Why me?”

“You have my trust.”

We both know that to be a lie. He trusts I will not let her die without cause. He trusts that I know how to bury emotion beneath function. He trusts that I am still the blade he forged, even if I’ve turned from his war. He assumes that I will allow her to distract me. He is wrong.

“I want her monitored closely,” he says, turning back to the council. “Until we know what she is, and what the breach means for the Emberbrand. We need thirteen to proceed.”

I watch the council nod, pretending this is not theater. I say nothing more, but I cannot ignore the sense of subtle, pointed cruelty. He does not assign this task to a court sycophant or low-tier Flamekeeper. He gives her to me because he knows it will unnerve me. Or he hopes as much.

A mortal in the Wasteland. A soul the flame cannot read. And now, my responsibility.

He thinks I will drag her into the fold. But he forgets. I remember what it means to lose someone I could not protect. He wants me to take up the helm of protector. Or he wants me tied up as the rite proceeds. Or some other nefarious hidden plot. I will not fall for it. Not this time. Not again.

The court disperses slowly, like blood cooling after a kill. Chatter rises in low waves: the Emberbrand, the mortal girl, the Flame Crown. All of it speculation stacked upon old fear. I make no effort to engage. I move through them as I always do—untouched. Untouchable.

Solonar falls into step beside me in the corridor behind the dais, just as I knew he would.

“You were quiet longer than usual,” he says mildly. “I expected sparks, a show.”

“I have little interest in playing to an audience.” Unlike some, I don’t say.

He hums in agreement. “Yet somehow the script always drags you back in.”

“You were the one who said walking away would buy peace.” I glance at him sidelong.

“I also said you wouldn’t stay gone.”

We walk in silence for a stretch. The braziers here burn low, casting long shadows across the hall’s sigil-carved walls. The oldest stories are etched into the stone, flame-birthed runes glowing faintly beneath our feet.

“You believe the Rite should not rise,” I say quietly.

He’s quiet for a breath. “I never said that.”