Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
KAY
I’ve never walked so slowly in my life. The halls leading to the court stretch longer than they should.
Every surface gleams. The floors pulse faintly with some kind of magic I can’t name.
The columns are carved with flame that seems to move if I look too long.
I want to stop. I want to bolt. But my feet keep moving because there’s nowhere else to go.
The chamber doors open before we reach them.
Parting without sound—tall as towers, etched in gold and obsidian—and what lies beyond them is not a room. It’s a world.
The court of Crimson is overwhelming. It doesn’t look like a throne room.
It looks like an opera house sculpted by a god on a fever high.
Tiered rows of Daemari rise in circles, encircling a central platform like the eye of a storm.
No walls—just archways and soaring columns, open to firelight and shadow.
Everything glows. Even the stone. Especially the people.
There are dozens of them, maybe hundreds.
Some robed. Some armored. Some dripping jewels like blood.
All of them watching. I don’t mean that poetically.
I mean all of them. The moment I step past the threshold, every head turns. Every gaze lands. And I’m seen.
Not understood. Not welcomed. Examined. Measured. Noted.
I hate it.
A woman guides me down a stair carved from molten-colored marble and gestures to the center platform ringed in gold.
I step over the gilded edge, my knees feel like Jello, and glance around, trying to pretend I’m not in the middle of some makeshift stage.
There’s a basin there—shallow, wide, flickering with golden flame.
It casts no heat. But I feel it anyway. Thirteen seats circle it.
Twelve are filled. The thirteenth is waiting.
For whom? Not for me, surely. I don’t have a mark. How many times are we going to go over that tiny detail.
I step onto the platform. It’s not high, but it feels it exposed.
Elevated like a stage. Like a warning. I keep my shoulders back.
Chin up. The dress feels too scratchy. My skin feels too loud.
The air hums like the room is listening.
I glance at the fire in the center. It moves strangely.
Pulsing like it’s taking deep breaths. Like it knows I’m here.
It’s insane, but so is everything else. Maybe this is just the new normal.
I breathe through the tightness in my chest and plant my feet. I will not flinch.
For a moment, I want to shrink. To disappear into the marble.
But then I remember Sarai’s words—don’t wait for permission.
I force my shoulders back, chin up, and let the fear burn into something sharper.
If I’m going to be a spectacle, I’ll be my own.
My skin prickles under a hundred stares.
I want to run, but I plant my feet. I’m here. I’m not leaving. Let them look.
My heart is trying to escape through my ribs.
Not metaphorically. It feels like it’s clawing upward, pounding against bone like it could break free and sprint for the exit on its own.
I don’t blame it. There are too many people.
Too many eyes. Too many expressions like I’m an insect that crawled across the wrong banquet table.
If I feel safe, it’s only because I haven’t yet caught the shadow of the goblet poised to crush me under it’s heavy base.
My breath catches, tight and high in my throat. I hate this. I hate being stared at. Always have. I hated the school talent shows and conference introductions and every time someone said, “Just say a few words.” This is worse.
These aren’t curious strangers. They’re nobles.
Soldiers. Daemari. They look like they’ve trained their whole lives to spot weakness and I’m currently wearing a red dress and a target on my back.
I close my eyes, just for a second, and focus on my feet.
On the way they connect with the stone. Cold.
Solid. I breathe in through my nose. Out through my mouth. Again. Slower.
Let the thoughts come. Let them go.
My heartbeat doesn’t slow, not yet. But it gets quieter.
More contained. The cold sweat across my skin begins to retreat.
Something warm blooms in my chest, spreading outward down my arms, into my fingertips.
My legs stop trembling, and I realize I am still here.
They don’t know me. They don’t know my name or my history or what I gave up just to survive this long.
They see a girl. Maybe a mistake. Maybe a toy.
Maybe something to test or tame or toss aside. A human.
But that’s their problem. Not mine. If they want me to cower, to crumble under their gaze like some skittish lamb, they picked the wrong girl. I may be human. I may be lost. But I am still someone. I open my eyes, lift my chin, and meet their stares with everything they don’t expect.
“You’re smaller than I expected.”
The voice comes from the opposite side of the flame basin.
Smooth. Drawling. Loud enough to carry. It belongs to a man lounging across one of the thirteen chairs like it was built for his spine alone.
He’s beautiful like a hurricane or a tornado.
Symmetrical, sharp, and clearly here to ruin something. Likely me.
Gold-threaded coat, white, blonde hair buzzed close along his scalp, shorter than any of the other men I’ve met here—but still taller than me—and the kind of smug smile that makes me want to set something on fire. Preferably him.
He lifts a gloved hand and gestures at me like I’m part of the decor. “Though I suppose the human shape always looks more fragile up close.”
My mouth twitches. I could ignore him. I really could. But I’m tired and I’ve had five cups of fire tea instead of caffeine.
So, I tilt my head, innocent. “That’s weird. You look exactly like I imagined.”
The murmur that ripples through the crowd is barely audible—but I hear it. A few people blink. One outright chuckles.
Blondie raises a brow. “You’re bold for a creature with no lineage.”
“Oh, I have a lineage,” I say sweetly. “Mostly anxiety and bad impulse control, but it’s strong.”
He leans forward now, his gaze sharpening. “You joke because you don’t understand. The Rite is not a play. It is fire made manifest. Those who stand in the circle burn. The weak, human or otherwise, do not walk away.”
I shrug, just a little. “Sounds like you’re nervous.”
That gets a louder ripple. He smiles, but it’s thinner now. I’m pretty sure I’ve just made my first enemy. Great. Another thing to add to the to-do list.
Around us, the room hushes. Not with fear, but with expectation.
Every head turns toward the grand entrance above the amphitheater.
A rustle. A few startled glances. One nervous breath.
And there he is. Caziel. Not in armor. Not dressed for battle or display.
Just dark clothing, clean lines, no excess—like the air around him decided to become formal.
He walks slowly. Deliberately. The Ember Heir doesn’t rush.
He enters like he owns the floor and doesn’t care if you know it.
No entourage. No fanfare. Just presence.
The court reacts the way trees might react to a wildfire in the distance—rooted, still, but bracing.
I see it in the stiffened shoulders, the sudden silence, the way even the cruel ones don’t meet his eyes.
He walks with the quiet confidence of someone who doesn’t need to prove anything.
And the flame in the center of the court lifts, like it’s been waiting for him.
Like it’s turning toward him. Like it recognizes him.
And maybe I do, too. Not fully. Not rationally, but something in my chest twists, and I suddenly feel very, very aware of how alone I’d been until now.
My stomach twists. I don’t know what I expected.
But it wasn’t for the entire realm to react like this.
Caz doesn’t look at the other contenders. He doesn’t look at the empty seat. He doesn’t even look at the flame. He looks at me. Not for long, but it lands like a weight. Not heavy. Not cruel. Real.
His eyes are cool and unreadable, but I can feel something underneath. Not surprise. Not anger. Something closer to recognition. Like he’s relieved I’m still standing. Like he’s surprised that it matters.
I don’t know what to do. Do I nod? Do I speak?
Do I look away? I hold his gaze, just for a beat longer than I probably should, and hope my face isn’t doing anything stupid.
Then he breaks the contact and steps aside—not toward the platform, not toward the throne-like chairs circling the flame.
He stays in the periphery. Close enough to be seen. Far enough to avoid commitment.
The court doesn’t breathe. Neither do I.
My heart, which had finally settled down, starts up again.
A pounding rhythm slamming agonist my ribs.
Not in fear. In anticipation. I hate that because I don’t know what’s happening, but I do know this: the game just changed.
And I’m no longer the only piece out of place.
A figure steps onto the platform. Robes like living ember, gold ink running down their arms like molten veins. A ceremonial staff rests lightly in one hand, more scepter than weapon, and their voice carries like smoke—soft, curling, impossible to ignore.
“Let the court record the moment,” they say.
No name. No introduction. Just authority.
“The Emberbrand stirs.”
The ripple through the court is immediate. Controlled, yes, but tangible. Like someone opened a window mid-storm. I straighten. My spine aches. It doesn’t feel like a beginning. It feels like a sentence. A punishment.
“The Brand,” the speaker continues, “has begun to call its chosen.” They raise a hand toward the ring of thirteen seats—twelve filled, one empty. “The contenders have been named. Most. Not all.”
A beat of silence. The flame in the basin dances higher for just a moment, golden-red and flickering.
I stare at it, feeling the heat slide deep under my skin.
Somewhere, at the edge of the room, Caziel shifts.
Not much. Just rocking his weight from one foot to the.
Other. A moment of stillness breaking. But I feel it like a slap.
My stomach drops. Was that seat meant for him?
Is it meant for me? Did I just accidentally trip into someone’s apocalypse audition?
The speaker continues. “The Rite has not begun. Not yet. But the contenders shall begin their training. They will be tested. Tempered. Watched. Until the final mark appears—when the circle is complete, and the fire rises.”
They don’t say what kind of training. They don’t say who oversees it. And they don’t say what happens if one of the contenders fails before the Rite even starts. I glance at the empty seat. Then at the others. The contenders.
They each look different. Some robed, some armored, some dressed in style I’d call haute gothic gladiator. One is all bone-white silk and jagged jewelry. One wears flameproof leathers and leans forward like they’re already planning who to kill first.
There are six men, five women, and one figure I can’t even begin to describe.
And they’re all terrifying in their own way.
Not just powerful. Prepared. Like they knew this was coming.
Like they’ve been waiting. Every contender— even the one half-hidden behind their hood—has the same mark.
Deep red lines circling their wrists and forearms, crossing like molten threads beneath the skin.
The Emberbrand. From the corner of my eye, it seems to move when they do, catching the light like something alive, but when I look again each is static.
A tattoo or birthmark. That must be what they keep talking about. The Emberbrand.
Caziel doesn’t have one. Not that I’ve see, although maybe it’s under his glamor.
His skin is bare. No mark. No brand. And I certainly don’t have one either.
I glance down at my hand to check. Nope.
Just pale skin, the hint of my paw print tattoos disappearing under the cuff my sleeve.
A human in a borrowed dress with bed hair disguised as defiance.
Trying not to pass out in front of a magical bloodsports' tribunal.
The speaker’s gaze skims the group, then—very deliberately—lands on me.
Neither long, nor warm. Just enough for the message to settle.
I am part of this. Or at least, they’ve decided I might be.
My stomach knots. Training? Me? What does that even mean?
Sword fighting? Flame dancing? Advanced brooding?
Is this seriously…. Is this the goddamn Hunger Games? !
I force my shoulders back. Let them see a girl with nothing to lose. Let them misunderstand me. Because if I’m being honest—I’m panicking. Behind the stillness, beneath the bravado, I don’t belong here. Not with these people. Not in this circle.
I’m a former foster kid. A vet tech with clinical depression, student debt, and a cat with separation anxiety.
Not to mention a boatload of trauma. I don’t need more in the form of a mythical gladiator fight.
I didn’t sign up for this. I didn’t ask to stand in a ring of magical warlords and hope my human squish-brain doesn’t get me incinerated.
But I can’t look weak. Not now. I tilt my head, smirk just enough.
And wait.
The contenders don’t approach me, but a few look. One sneers. Another one nods once, like respect or warning. The last seat stays empty and Caziel stays standing. For a heartbeat, I wonder if he’s going to speak. Tell them it’s all been a mistake. Tell them I’m not one of them. Tell them he is.
But he doesn’t. He just stands there, watching me with that unreadable expression, and I realize maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe no one does. And I’m starting to worry that if I don’t figure it out soon, someone’s going to get hurt.
Probably me.