Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
KAY
Iwake up stiff. It’s not surprising, given my activities from the day before. I practically fell into my lush bed when I made it back to my room. I’m not even sure I remember getting dressed. But this is more than I expected. Maybe it’s all of it catching up to me. I’ve been here since…
Wait.
Yesterday I made the blonde bleed in the training rings.
That was fun. The day before that…. The day before…
thirteen chairs and robed figures. Fire.
No. That was two different days. With some time in between them.
The thoughts slide off my brain like drops of rain down a slick, smooth surface.
Am I losing my mind? Was it all a dream?
Lava fields and dirt and charred air. Except no.
I’m still stiff. Like can’t-lift-my-arms, consider-chewing-my-own-shoulder-off stiff.
I was at a conference. Something happened.
The elevator. I try to ground myself in reality.
It should be easy. Everything hurts. Even my eyelashes.
Even my regrets. For a moment, I lie completely still in the strange bed and let the burn settle into my bones.
The soreness is almost satisfying, though.
A reminder that I did something. Stupid, maybe.
But real. This is real. This place. I am most likely going to be forced to compete in some stupid flame rite for some stupid fantasy realm and I’ll probably die without my cat even noticing I was gone. But not today.
I didn’t die yesterday.
I’m still alive today.
That’s a start.
The room is quiet. No knock at the door. No flaming scrolls. No servants materializing with cryptic robes or tea that tastes like hot metal. Just me. In borrowed clothes in a borrowed bed in a borrowed realm. I sit up slowly, every muscle protesting.
“Ow,” I mutter. “Okay. Cool. Yes. Love this for me.”
If George were here, he’d be watching me with his usual judgmental glare, wondering why I’m making so much noise without opening a can of paté.
God, I hope he’s okay.
I drag myself toward the armoire and open it.
Inside, there are clothes again. More than yesterday.
Someone’s been stocking me like a video game avatar.
Leathers, linen, wraps, buckles. Things that suggest either “sexy apocalypse” or “training montage with bonus bruises.” I sigh and pick the most flexible-looking outfit.
It’s black. Of course it’s black. Every color in Crimson looks like it’s been dipped in ash, charred, or dipped in blood.
Getting dressed is a process. Half because I’m sore. Half because I want to look like I belong, but have no idea where to start. Not glamorous. Not intimidating. Just… capable. I don’t want them to assume I’m going to fail before I even have a chance. A real one.
I twist my hair back and try for a loose braid.
It’s not perfect, but it’s out of my face.
A memory surfaces of Sarai offering to help yesterday, gentle fingers tugging and tucking the strands into an intricate twist. I push it away before it can form into longing.
I study myself in the shifting mirror on the wall.
The reflection adjusts with my thoughts—slightly clearer now, less warped than yesterday.
I look tired. Pale. But I still look like me. That’s something.
“Okay,” I tell my reflection. “You’ve survived a fire , a ring fight, and demon politics. Time to go flirt with a man who probably bench-presses stone statues and has zero sense of humor.” I pause. “Just another Tuesday.”
My voice sounds steadier than I feel, and I take that as a good sign.
Today, I train with Caziel. The Ember Heir. The man who promised I wouldn’t be alone.
I still don’t know what that promise means, don’t know if it can mean anything at all, but it’s better than nothing.
Better than running in circles with my fists up and my eyes closed.
I square my shoulders, turn toward the door, and take my first real step into the day. Let the demon prince do his worst.
He has me meet him in a smaller room than the day before.
There’s no crowd, no arena energy, no flame-eyed onlookers whispering about how many ways I’ll die before the first trial.
Just stone and silence and Caziel, already waiting in the center of the ring.
He doesn’t pace. He stands still, arms clasped behind his back, posture carved from discipline.
His coat—long, high-collared, severe—is gone.
Today it’s a black tunic, fitted across his shoulders and sleeveless.
It shouldn’t matter.
It absolutely does.
I stop just inside the doorway, suddenly very aware of how clunky I feel in my borrowed clothes. My boots squeak on the stone and Caziel turns. He watches me with the same unnerving stillness as yesterday—like he’s observing a puzzle, not a person.
“Good,” he says. “You’re early.”
I blink. I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before. Ever. I’m always running into the clinic at the last possible second while trying to pull up my hair and slurp down a coffee at the same time.
“Not gonna lie,” I say as I approach. “I half expected this to be another magical test where I get launched into a lava pit or have to duel a talking skeleton or something.”
“No skeletons today,” he replies, completely serious.
“Good to know there’s a schedule.”
I stop about ten feet from him. Not too close, but not so far away that I seem afraid.
Caziel studies me for a long, quiet moment.
Then he gestures to the polished rack beside him, where a dozen training weapons rest in orderly display.
I recognize swords, spears, curved knives, and two things that look like angry gardening tools, but several I’ve never seen and cant even begin to guess how they’re used.
“Choose one.”
I stare at the rack. Then at him. Then back again.
“I feel like this is a trick question.”
“It isn’t.”
“Because no offense, but your realm seems really into trick questions. And I’d really like to wait until after lunch to walk face-first into one.”
His mouth almost twitches. Almost.
I walk over and skim my fingers along the hilts.
Most are too heavy, too long, too aggressive-looking.
I eventually settle on a short, narrow-bladed dagger with a curved edge and a ridged grip.
It feels… manageable. Like I might be able to hold it without slicing off my own foot.
For a few minutes at least. If I don’t have to do anything else with it.
I turn back. “Points for style?”
Caziel doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps toward me and I tense.
I don’t think he’ll hurt me, but because something about his presence is just so solid.
He takes up more space than he should. Like gravity humors him out of respect.
He stops in front of me, and with no warning, reaches out.
My breath catches, but his hand doesn’t touch me.
It hovers near my arm. Then my elbow. My hip.
Correcting posture without ever making contact.
“You’re bracing with your wrist,” he murmurs. “That will weaken your strike.”
“Didn’t realize I had a strike yet.”
“If you didn’t, I wouldn’t be training you.”
His voice is quiet, even, but something in it hums against my ribs. He circles behind me and I try not to shift. Try not to flinch when his voice comes low over my shoulder.
“Footwork first. You fight with your whole body, or not at all.”
“Cool. I’ve always wanted to be a deadly interpretive dancer.”
“Humor is not a defense, Kay.”
“It’s all I’ve got, Caz.”
He pauses. Then steps away and I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for days.
We begin. One movement at a time. Feet. Balance.
Hips. Eyes. Blade. It’s slow. Awkward. I mess up at least six things for every one I get right.
But he never snaps. Never mocks. He just watches, corrects, adjusts, and every time he speaks I feel something settle inside me.
Something that hasn’t been still in a very, very long time.
I lose count after the eleventh repetition. Or the fifteenth. Or maybe the moment my thighs start trembling like overcooked noodles and my shoulder goes numb from holding the blade too tight.
“Again,” Caziel says.
I repeat the swing of the blade. Or at least something like it.
Foot forward. Twist at the hips. Keep the dagger close.
Don’t trip over your own boot. I’ve never done so many things wrong so many times in a row.
Which, for me, is saying something. Caziel barely speaks now.
He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t bark orders. He just watches, eyes following every movement—calm, focused, clinical.
Like he’s measuring the angles of my failure for future analysis. Or maybe for my eulogy.
I swing too wide, and the dagger jerks as if pulling me back into position. He steps forward—fast—but doesn’t touch me. Not yet.
“Again.”
My breathing’s ragged now. Sweat slides down the back of my neck. My braid sticks to my spine like a whip that missed its mark. I’m hot, sore, dizzy, but I don’t stop. I’m not sure if it’s pride or spite pushing me forward. Probably both.
“Drop your weight,” he says, circling me again. “You’re lunging, not striking.”
“Oh,” I pant, “you mean my desperate… flailing doesn’t count… as… technique? That’s not…” I suck in air, “what you told…me… the other day.”
He says nothing, but I think his mouth twitches again. His skin seems to shimmer in the light of flame. Bending and refracting in ways that confuse my brain. When I blink again he’s back to normal. Maybe I should take a minute. Slow my heart rate.