Chapter 9 #2
“Oh good. Just like home.”
She doesn’t smile this time. But the tension around her eyes softens.
“I mean it,” I say. “We don’t have fire gods or Ember hellcats or surrealist architecture, but the whole ‘built on suffering, maintained through denial’ thing? Pretty universal.”
She tilts her head. “And where do you fall in your world’s story?”
I pause. Think.
“Somewhere between disillusioned background character and exhausted girl in the audience screaming, ‘What the hell is this plotline?’”
That earns a small laugh. Quiet. Almost unwilling.
“I’m a woman. I’m simultaneously never in power because that would be men controlling everything, and I’m still privileged simply based on the color of my skin.
I try to do the best I can until I learn better, I try to listen to those who have systemically been denied agency and freedom.
I want to do something, but I don’t know what.
It takes unity, collaboration, teamwork to enact change and time.
Education. Honesty. And around all that I still have to go to work, scrub my bathroom, remember to wash my hair and make my own doctor’s appointments.
I’m constantly angry that I’m not doing more and also feel like I’m drowning under the weight of what I’m juggling, and I know so many people have it worse than me. ”
“Worse than falling through dimensions and landing in Hell?” Sarai raises one curved brow.
“You know what I mean.” I pause. “I think.”
Sarai leans back in the chair, watching me like I’m a puzzle with too many corners.
“You’re different than I expected,” she says.
I shrug. “That’s how I feel about most of the people I’ve met here.”
She doesn’t argue. “Most would’ve asked more questions about the Sovereigns. About the flame. About power. How to survive, seize, and wield it.”
“Yeah, well…” I drain the rest of my tea.
“You said you don’t get to be in the story.
That was the part that mattered to me. I want no part in something rigged.
” Silence settles between us. Not awkward.
Real. Like something unsaid has been acknowledged.
Then I add, “Also, I figure if I need a crash course in magical hierarchy, someone will eventually throw me into an arena and shout the rules from a balcony. If this is real, then I doubt knowing much will help.”
She raises a brow.
I grin. “I read fantasy novels. I know how this goes.” When she frowns, I clarify, “books.” I pantomime flipping pages. This time, Sarai does smile. Full. Bright.
“Try not to die in the first chapter.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Sarai’s laugh is still hanging in the air when the knock comes.
Not a polite tap. A measured rhythm—like someone trained in etiquette but absolutely certain of their rank.
Sarai goes still. It’s small—barely a pause—but I feel it.
The quiet snap from warmth to composure. Her shoulders reset. Her eyes cool.
And just like that, the fire between us vanishes.
She rises smoothly, dusting nonexistent lint from her sleeve. “Stay seated. They can’t—just—” she
“What if it’s coffee?” I’m trying for levity, but her look says don’t.
Not unkind, but firm. I wonder if she would be punished for speaking freely.
Caz said I wasn’t a prisoner, I wouldn’t be harmed, but that was before the lewd remarks in the square.
And before I learned that my new friend Sarai doesn’t just work at the palace, make a living wage, and go home. She’s stuck.
A moment later, the door opens—without her touching it. Magic again. I’m trying not to be impressed, but this place really commits to the drama. A Daemari steps through.
He’s tall and pale, with spiral tattoos crawling up his neck and a uniform so crisp it might bite. There’s a scroll in one hand and a general sense of disdain in the other.
“Human,” he says, not looking at me. “You are summoned to the hall.”
“Neat,” I reply, slowly standing. “Is this a dinner thing or another infuriating round of twenty-questions-no-answers?”
He blinks. Briefly. Then ignores me entirely and sets the scroll on the table. Sarai’s eyes are carefully blank. I don’t like it. He leaves without another word. The door clicks closed behind him, soft as a warning. I wait until I’m sure he’s gone.
Then I turn to Sarai, lowering my voice. “So… that wasn’t ominous at all.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she picks up the scroll and unrolls it. Her eyes scan the elegant ink, and I see the faintest crease form between her brows.
“What is it?”
“A gathering,” she says carefully. “The court will observe the contenders for the Emberbrand.”
Contenders.
As in plural.
As in not me.
“Oh,” I say, deadpan. “Good. I love group humiliation. Really builds character.”
Sarai finally looks at me. Something’s different in her eyes now. Not fear. But concern. Something tight.
“I’ll help you dress,” she says, already moving to the wardrobe. “It matters.” She adds before I can protest.
That unsettles me more than anything else so far.
Not because I care about clothing, but because she does.
And because I think she doesn’t want me to ask why.
As she pulls rich fabric from the closet, I glance toward the bed where we were sitting only minutes ago, laughing about gods with the temperament of drama queens and empires built on envy.
Now it feels far away, like the air in the room shifted while I wasn’t looking. I almost forgot that none of this is normal, possibly even real.
Sarai sets out a deep red garment with delicate embroidery and flame-kissed trim.
“Is this one of those ‘make a good impression or die’ things?” I ask, only half-joking.
She smooths the fabric, not meeting my eyes.
I sigh. “Right. Got it. Pageant rules.”
I’ve worn a lot of things I hated—uniforms, lab coats, a bridesmaid dress that looked like it was on a personal mission to wash me out—but this might be a new category.
Aka, I want to hate it but its so goddamn gorgeous I just can’t.
The dress Sarai helps me into is rich red, soft as heat, and tailored like it was made from spilled blood and good decisions.
It drapes and clings in all the ways that imply power, not permission.
It also has no zippers. Because apparently, we’ve left practicality in another realm entirely.
Sarai adjusts the shoulder drape with clinical precision.
She hasn’t said much since the summons arrived, but her silence is full of tension she’s trying not to show.
I glance toward the far wall, hoping for a mirror. There isn’t one. Of course there isn’t.
I open my mouth to ask—and before I can even form the words, the blank wall ripples and I see my reflection staring back at me.
I flinch. “Okay, nope. Still not used to that.”
Sarai raises a brow, amused. “The room heard you.”
“I didn’t say it out loud.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I stare at the mirror. My reflection stares back. She looks… unfamiliar. Regal. Haunted. Like someone halfway between sacrificial lamb and chosen one.
I clear my throat. “So, the room just gives me what I want?”
“Sometimes.”
“That seems like a lot of trust to put in the architecture.”
Sarai smiles faintly. “You’re the one controlling it, you know.”
I scoff. “Sure. Me and my unlicensed magical intuition.”
“You’re more than you appear,” she says softly, gathering a small vial of pigment and a brush. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be going to court.”
“That or they’re really desperate for entertainment.”
She ignores me. Instead, she leans in and begins brushing something dark along my upper lashes. It smells faintly of clove and something sharper.
“I hope this isn’t arsenic.” Wasn’t that the main ingredient in antique makeup?
“It’s not.”
“Have you used it on anyone else?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s encouraging.”
She moves with steady hands, staining my lashes, then dabbing something red gold onto my lips.
There’s an intimacy in it—not romantic, but old.
Ritualistic. It feels like being prepared for something I don’t yet understand.
No one has ever done my make up for me. I let her work in silence, watching my reflection shift under her care.
I look dangerous. Not because I am, but because someone wants me to seem that way.
When she finishes, she places the pigment aside and gently brushes out my hair. The tangles ease. My breath doesn’t.
On the table nearby, the court summons scroll rests—unfurling slightly with a breeze that doesn’t exist. I glance at it. The letters shimmer, curling like flame, absolutely unreadable.
“I don’t know how to read that,” I say, almost to myself.
Sarai hums. “Most don’t.”
“But I understood the man who brought it. I understand you. Caziel.”
She’s quiet.
And in that quiet, something clicks.
“I shouldn’t be able to,” I murmur. “You guys aren’t speaking English, are you. That’s magic too, isn’t it?”
Sarai meets my eyes in the mirror. She doesn’t confirm it. She doesn’t have to.
Sarai pauses. Then she says, so quietly I almost miss it, “Don’t let them mistake you for something simple.”
I go still. And something inside me—something low and quiet and cornered—burns just a little brighter.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say.
She rises, smoothing her skirt, but before she leaves, she pauses at the door and glances back.
“Kay,” she says, voice low, “if you want to survive here, don’t wait for someone to give you permission.”
I nod, but as the door closes, I realize I’m tired of waiting for anything.
I cross to the window, push it open, and let the night air wash over me. Somewhere out there, the city pulses with life and danger and possibility. I press my palm to the stone, grounding myself.
I think of Sarai’s stories—of the Vesperan, the footnotes, the people who keep the world running but are never allowed to write their names in the book of history. I think of the way she smiled, proud and sad all at once, when she said, “Footnotes last longer than headlines.”
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I don’t know if I’ll survive the next trial, or if the court will ever see me as more than a mistake. But I know this: I won’t let Sarai stand alone. I won’t let the Vesperan be erased, not if I can help it.
Tonight, I make a promise—not just to myself, but to Sarai, and to everyone like her who’s been forced into the margins. I will stand with them. I will listen, and I will remember. I will use whatever voice I have to make sure they are seen.
Let the court watch. Let them wonder. I’m not here to disappear. I’m here to stand with Sarai—and with anyone who’s ever been told they don’t belong.
Tonight, I promise, I will not let them stand alone.