Chapter 17 #2
“No one’s ever asked that.” He closes the book. “It creates exhaustion. Division. Compliance.”
He exhales. “The Ember Maw are dangerous, yes. But they’re not legion. They’re a nuisance, albeit a deadly one.”
I blink. “Then why all the drills? The weapons? The constant threat level midnight? Captain Iskar says all Daemari are trained in combat?”
“Because the threat has been inflated,” he says, voice low. “By my father. And others. Fear is persuasive. And fear of invasion is the easiest kind to weaponize.”
“You think it’s a manipulation.”
“I think I’m trying to find the truth at the heart of the conflict.” He gestures to the book on his lap. “There were attacks. But there are gaps. Patterns that don’t make sense. Numbers that rise only when elections—or public rituals—approach.”
“Like when contenders start being marked for the Rite?”
“Something exactly like that.”
“Is there a reasonable explanation?”
“Yes,” Caz frowns at the text, turning another page. “But reasonable doesn’t always mean true.”
We fall back into reading, but something’s different now. The air feels looser. Like the tension that’s always wrapped around Caziel’s spine has uncoiled just enough to breathe. He still doesn’t talk much—but when he does, it’s not clipped or corrective. It’s… curious. Engaged.
And when I lean over to show him a passage I don’t understand and our shoulders brush, He doesn’t move away. Neither do I.
“Okay,” I say, breaking the silence, “if we’re going to keep doing this, I think we need to agree this is basically a study date.”
He looks up. Blinks. “A… date?”
I grin. “You know—two people spending time together. Learning things. Pretending it’s not weird they’re staring at each other.”
He tilts his head. “There’s nothing pretend about it.”
I flush, warmth creeping up my neck, and my heart kicks hard in my chest, but He doesn’t elaborate. Just turns another page.
“I’m better like this,” I say after a moment. “Talking. Joking. It’s how I learn. Sitting in a room alone trying to memorize diagrams? Not my strong suit.”
Caziel considers that. “Then we’ll adjust the approach.”
“Really?”
“You’re trying. That’s enough.”
He says it like it’s fact. Like trying is rare. Maybe here it is. Maybe not just here.
“I’ll keep training you,” he continues. “You still need to defend yourself. That kind of skill can’t be taught by text.”
“Clearly,” I mutter, thinking of all the bruises on my ribs.
“But,” he adds, “we can rotate formats. More discussion. More exposure to customs. Language. Local politics.”
I stare. “Did you just design me a syllabus?”
“Would you prefer I hadn’t?”
“No, it’s… incredible.”
I lean back and fold my legs underneath me.
“So, tell me something else about Crimson,” I say. “Something not in the books.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then grins. “Children in the Ember Quarter are trained to walk barefoot on hot stone. Not because they must—but so that if the time comes, their skin remembers how.”
“The hell?”
“It’s not as harsh as it sounds. It’s ceremonial. A way of marking resilience. Memory.”
“We just had dodgeball.”
“Dodge… ball?”
I start laughing. Really laughing. It bubbles out of me so fast I can’t stop it. Caz watches me like I’ve grown a second head, which just makes it worse.
“Oh my God,” I wheeze, “please tell me there’s an alternate Crimson where kids are just pegging each other with fireballs for fun.”
“There are flame tag competitions during the mid-turn festivals.”
I blink. “…That’s basically dodgeball.”
“I’ll include it in your syllabus.”
The warmth between us hums a little louder. He’s not smiling, but I swear his eyes soften.
“Your turn,” he says. “Tell me something.”
I shrug. “I always wanted to be a vet, I like animals better than most people, but the passion has long been burned out of me and I’m not sure what to do about it.”
“You regret your work?” He asks so innocently, as if I didn’t have to explain to him at one point that a vet was a healer for animals.
“Not really. I’m student loan broke. That’s what we say when every paycheck from now and in perpetuity is going to go to the federal government. No girls night out, no vacation, no anything. Not until those hit zero.”
“Loans,” he echoes, like the word tastes foreign.
“Debt,” I clarify. “In exchange for education. But it follows you forever.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s barbaric. You’re punished for learning?”
“Welcome to Earth.”
He doesn’t comment on that.
But I see something flicker in him again—disapproval, maybe. Not of me. Of the world I came from. And maybe that’s fair. We drift again. Not in silence, exactly. But into that soft hum of shared presence. The kind that happens when you stop measuring time and just are in the space with someone.
“I don’t like fear,” I say eventually. Caziel looks up. “It turns people into things they don’t want to be. Controlling. Small.” He nods once, slow.
“Fear teaches the wrong lessons,” he murmurs. “It rewards submission. It encourages strength without compassion.”
“Exactly.” I lean my chin on my knee. “I thought I was weak for feeling too much after losing my parents. Turns out the opposite is worse.”
He stares at me for a long time. Like I’m a riddle he wasn’t expecting and maybe doesn’t want to solve.
“You’re not weak,” he says.
The way he says it makes my stomach flip. It’s a truth I’ve never heard out loud. I swallow, gaze flicking to the book in his hands.
“You always read this much?”
“When I was younger. Not as much now. Most of the records I need are restricted since I took myself out of contention for the Rite.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“I’ve learned to find other ways.”
Something about the way he says it makes my heart knock against my ribs. There’s a quiet fire under everything he does. A resistance wrapped in reason. And now I’m starting to see it. Not just what he is. But who.
“You and I,” I say slowly, “are very different.”
“Yes.”
“But… not entirely.”
“No.”
We look at each other. And for once, neither of us looks away. The moment stretches between us. Too long to be accidental and not quite long enough for anything to happen. And still, it vibrates in the air like static—like heat rising off coals just waiting for a breath of wind to make it burn.
I don’t move at first. Neither does he. Then I shift my weight slightly, and my hand grazes his on the floor between us.
Just the back of his fingers. A brush of skin.
I mean to pull away. I don’t. His fingers twitch.
And then he turns his palm upward. Not inviting. Not demanding. Just open. Waiting.
The air leaves my lungs. I place my hand in his.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
Like setting down a match.
His fingers curl around mine. Slow. Certain. Warm. His hand is strong. Callused from long hours with a blade. Too big to feel as gentle as it does. We don’t speak. We just sit there, barely touching, and yet it feels like we’ve shifted something tectonic. Something neither of us can unmove again.
I glance up at him and he’s already looking at me. The flicker, the break in the glamor, is back again. His face sharpens, ever so slightly. His eyes catch the firelight too brightly, too ancient to be mortal. But there’s no fear in me. Only awe.
The moment tips forward, a car parked on the edge of a cliff, and that’s when he pulls away.
It’s neither violent nor abrupt, just a clean withdrawal.
A flick of his fingers. A recalibration of posture.
Suddenly the air is cooler. The space between us wider.
He clears his throat, but doesn’t look at me.
“I shouldn’t have…” His jaw works, the words catching on the way out. “I apologize.”
I blink. “For…?”
He still won’t meet my gaze.
“That was… inappropriate.”
My stomach twists. Not in shame. Not even in rejection.
I’m confused because nothing about that moment felt inappropriate.
It felt right. Like something that had been building between us since the very beginning.
Since the silence. Since the sword. Since the way he looked at me like I was real when no one else would. I take a slow breath.
“Caziel.”
His name settles the air again and he finally glances my way. Still careful. Still distant.
“I was the one who reached out,” I say. He studies me. Silent. “You might be the only thing in this world that feels real.”
His shoulders drop, just slightly. And I know, deep down, that it’s not me he’s trying to protect. It’s himself. Whatever he’s held together this long, it’s more fragile than it looks.
“I should go,” he says softly. And this time, I don’t stop him.
He stands. I rise too, folding my arms to keep from reaching out again. Caz moves toward the door with purpose, but pauses with his hand on the frame.
“I’ll bring more books tomorrow,” he says without turning.
“Bring yourself too,” I reply. Quiet. Not a plea, but not a joke either.
He doesn’t answer. Just nods once and slips out into the hall.
I stand there for a long time after the door shuts, my hand still tingling from his.
Some part of me wants to be embarrassed.
Wants to curl into the old self-protection habits.
But I don’t. Because for a heartbeat, he let the flame show. And I’m not sorry for reaching for it.