Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
KAY
I’m roughly eighty percent sure this is the same room from the first training bouts, but it’s different this time.
Bigger, less intimate, and colder in a way that has nothing to do with temperature.
That also could have something to do with the significantly smaller number of people today. Body heat, adrenaline, and all that.
Two others are already here when Sarai drops me off at the outer doors.
One I recognize immediately, the pair of knives strapped to her thighs as memorable as the long red braids.
I avoided facing her during the first round of bouts, refusing to reach for the weapon alongside me.
She’s dressed in a simple tunic and leather belt, but carries herself like the blades along her thighs are part of her very bones.
Her dark eyes track me without expression.
The man beside her is unfamiliar, at least in a way that counts.
I’ve seen him in passing, watching the training rings from a distance, arms always folded like he’s choosing his moment.
He’s a bit taller than Caz, built like a reed—long and lean.
His robes are wine dark and he wears them like armor.
Purple streaks his ash dark hair and something shadowed whispers at his fingertips.
Caziel is there too. Leaning against one of the stone columns like he’s just part of the architecture. His gaze flickers once across me but says nothing. That’s all I get. That’s the vibe today.
“Warm welcome,” I mutter to myself. “Really rolling out the bloodstained carpet.”
The woman’s brow arches. The man’s mouth tugs, barely.
Caziel pushes off the column. “Begin with blade forms.” Then he walks to the far wall and says nothing else.
Training with someone watching you is one thing.
Training with someone judging you—when you’re not entirely sure they’re not mad at you—is another.
Still, I move to mirror the others. Follow their rhythm.
They’re good. Really good. It’s not like training with Caz, where everything is surgical and cold.
These two fight like they’ve done it in real battles—quick, decisive, economic.
They don’t move for show. They move to end things.
The woman turns toward me between sequences.
“Your shoulders are tense.”
I blink. “Sorry. Is that a Crimson faux pas?”
“It’s just inefficient.”
She steps forward, nudges one with the flat of her fingers, then lifts my elbow. “There.”
I reset. Run the form again. Even I can feel the difference.
“Thanks.”
She nods once, then glances at the man. “You’re the one she hasn’t fought yet.”
“That wasn’t my decision.”
The man inclines his head. He lifts one hand, palm up. Heat rises. A spiral of flame and kinetic shimmer spins briefly in the air between us—no bigger than a plate, but controlled. Beautiful.
“Blades aren’t always the best tool,” he says simply.
“You’re a wizard?”
“A mage.” He nods. The shimmer vanishes and he shrugs.
We move through more sequences. They’re not trying to outdo me, but include me.
It’s a strange dynamic between us. Not hostile.
Not warm either. Just respectful. Like sparring with coworkers who have no stake in whether you live or die.
I don’t realize why until between rounds when we pause for water.
I wipe my forehead and flop to sit cross-legged on the floor.
They aren’t here because Caziel is training them. They’re helping him train me.
“So is this normal for you guys?” I ask. “Training together?” They have an ease about them, something tells me they’ve sparred in the past.
“No,” the woman says.
The man just says, “Unusual.”
I shake my head. The contenders as a rule are clearly no strangers to combat. Even the young guy with the flyaway curls. Every one of them either has no nerves whatsoever or they could sweep the BAFTAs in every major acting category. I frown.
“I’m human. Not stupid.” I catch the split-second glance they share between them, “Not that stupid. I’ve seen enough bar fights to know what is and isn’t practiced.”
“Well, of course we are fighters.” The woman shrugs. “All Daemari are trained in combat wether they swear to the Guard or not. It is unusual because we are contenders.”
“So?”
She glances at the ring, back at me, eyes wide. “The Rite isn’t a bloodbath. We’re not supposed to kill each other. But we are supposed to prove ourselves. Most contenders train alone. Helps keep strategy secret. It also gives an idea of how we’d lead. Who’s advice we’d value. How credit given.”
“And yet,” I gesture around us.
She nods. “This is new.”
“You don’t say no when the Ember Heir asks for a favor. Right Captain?” the violet-haired man adds.
I blink. “Wait—Caz asked you to help me?”
They both nod. I let that sink in and laugh. They don’t. I hadn’t realized this was a personal thing. I thought we’d been split into some sort of mystical trio by the talking Flame. I didn’t know he—
“Captain,” I say, turning to the woman, suddenly curious. “You’re military?”
“Captain in the Ember Guard,” she confirms. “Fifteen years.”
“See, now that makes sense. You move like your joints came pre-trained.”
She almost smiles. “You talk a lot.”
“I’ve been told.”
She glances at the mage. “Elira doesn’t. So it balances.”
“I assumed he was just quiet because he was plotting how to incinerate me if I flubbed another swing.”
The mage actually smiles. Briefly. “No. I was deciding how to block your fall if you overextended.”
I take another drink. Let the moment settle.
“You know,” I say finally, “some people might be uncomfortable with someone like me being in the Rite.”
“They are,” Elira says. The captain doesn’t deny it.
“But I’m not trying to steal their glory,” I add. “I’m not even sure I want it. I’m just trying not to die.”
“That’s obvious,” the captain says. “But you fight back. And not everyone does.”
I glance toward Caziel again. He hasn’t moved. Still distant, but still listening. I wonder if this is his version of protection—arming me with people instead of words.
I look back at the others.
“You know,” I murmur, “history is made in moments like this. The unprecedented ones. Otherwise, we just keep repeating the same stories.”
Caziel speaks then, from across the room.
“Some people prefer repetition.” His voice is cool, deliberate. “It’s easier than facing the unknown. But that doesn’t make it right.”
And just like that, the lesson is over. Elira gives me a small nod as he leaves, already turning inward like someone switching masks. The captain follows, her gait measured, her braid a blade of its own down her back.
Caziel is gone before I even realize it.
Just—gone.
For a minute, I stay on the floor.
I don’t want to move yet.
I’m sweating and sore and probably smell like stress and dirt, but my heart’s still thumping like I just won something. Except I didn’t. I didn’t lose either, though, that’s something. Baby steps.
I think about what Elira said. You don’t say no when the Ember Heir asks.
I think about the way the captain looked at me—not like a threat, but like a puzzle.
Something complicated and maybe necessary.
And I think about Caziel. The man who told me I wouldn’t be alone and then spent today proving it in the most Caziel way imaginable: delegation and silence.
Maybe it should make me angry—The distance, the coldness—but it doesn’t.
It leaves me more confused than anything.
He didn’t have to ask anyone to help me.
He didn’t have to train me at all. He could’ve let the Rite chew me up and spit me out like everyone else expected it to.
But he didn’t. And for reasons I don’t understand, that matters more than I want it to.
I let my head fall back against the stone wall behind me and stare up at the flickering sconces.
The torchlight dances like it’s alive. Like it knows something I don’t and maybe it does.
My mind shuffles through the contenders like playing cards.
How trained. How calm. How quietly powerful.
I don’t fit here. I’m clearly a mistake and not just because I’m human.
No elite schooling. No ancient birthright.
No court polish. Just trauma and tenacity and the reflexive instinct to laugh when things get bad.
I don’t belong here, but here I am. That has to count for something.
I run a hand through my damp hair, dragging it out of my face.
I need a bath. A nap. A bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and a therapist. What I actually get is probably more flaming runes and life-or-death tasks.
I push to my feet slowly, stretching out the stiffness in my legs.Whatever’s coming next—I need to face it standing.
I might not have any actual answers about how I got here, or why me, but I’m not just passing through Crimson now. I’m part of it. At least for a while.
I return to my room expecting silence. Instead, I find Sarai waiting just inside the door, holding a delicate cup in one hand and a steaming clay kettle in the other.
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just sets the kettle on the table and pours out a second cup.
The air fills with the scent of crushed herbs, warmth, and something faintly metallic—like rain on hot stone.
“Hi,” I say, trying not to sound surprised.
She offers me a tired smile. “You look like someone who could use fire tea.”
“I was aiming for mysterious but composed,” I say. “Was the sweat too much?”
She gives a soft laugh and hands me the cup. The heat seeps through my fingers, grounding.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” I admit.
Her smile fades just a little. “I was…warned… that I should give you space. And you’ve been busy.”
“That’s a polite way of saying I’ve been getting my ass handed to me.”
“You’ve already lasted longer than most expected.” She doesn’t say for a human. She doesn’t have to.
We sit. The silence is comfortable, which surprising because I feel like it shouldn’t be. But she’s the only person here who talks like I do. The only one who asks how I slept or notices when my hands shake. Even if she cant, or won’t, answer half my questions.
“So,” I say, blowing across the tea, “do I get to know what I’m being led to slaughter for tomorrow, or is that one of those delightful Daemari surprises?”
Her expression shifts. Wary surprise.
“The flame sees what it sees,” she says.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I can give.”
I sip my drink. It burns a little, but not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me I’m alive.
“I thought maybe you’d know something about it,” I say. “Caziel doesn’t talk much. And the other contenders were friendly enough, but not exactly full of answers.”
Sarai watches me for a moment. “You like him.”
I choke slightly on the tea. “What? No. I mean—I do, but not— That’s not— That’s not the point.”
“You trust him.”
“Does it count when I wasn’t given many options?”
“That’s rare.”
I stare into my cup. The reflection of the firelight flickers at the surface, dancing against the rim.
“Do you?” I ask.
She pauses, her eyes darting around the perimeter of my room, lighting on every surface like she’s hoping a new topic of conversation “He’s different than most Daemari.”
That’s not a yes, but there’s a weight to her words.
“Have you ever seen the flame choose someone?” I ask softly. “Really choose?”
“Yes.”
“What was it like?”
“Terrifying.”
That’s the first honest thing she’s said all night. I set the cup down, wrapping my arms around my knees.
“You know what the worst part is?” I say. “It’s not the fear. It’s not even the not-knowing.”
“What is it?”
“It’s realizing that no one expects me to make it out of this. That I’m not even supposed to.”
Sarai’s eyes soften. Her hands tighten around her cup, but she doesn’t deny it. She doesn’t lie.
“You’ve seen others try,” I say. “Others who didn’t belong.” She nods. “What happened to them?”
She takes a long breath.
“Crimson does not always welcome change.”
We sit in silence again. This time it’s heavier, not from hostility but from truth. Sarai reaches for the kettle, refills her cup, and changes the subject.
“I used to think the flame was a god,” she says. “That it had a mind. A will.”
“And now?”
“Now I think it’s a mirror.”
I blink. “Like… it reflects you?”
“No. Like it shows people what they already believe.”
That lodges in my ribs like a splinter. I think of the court. Of the banners, the fire, the flame ready to burn me alive or worse—ignore me completely. What will they see? What do I?
“Why are you here, Sarai?”
She tilts her head. “Now?”
“No. I mean… here. In this realm. In this place. You said your people don’t get remembered. Don’t get history.”
She doesn’t answer. Not at first.
“There’s always work that can be done, even if no one will see it or remember. Movement takes time.”
The words linger like the heat of the tea in my throat. Sarai doesn’t say anything as she leaves. She just touches my shoulder, once, and is gone.