Chapter 24 #2
I blink, startled by the intensity in his voice.
“I thought you were going to turn to ash right there in front of me,” he says, and this time it’s not sharp—it’s shaken. “There was a moment I didn’t think you’d come back at all.”
The words land heavy in my chest. I swallow hard.
“But I did.”
He meets my gaze. “You did.”
I shift, carefully, testing the boundaries of my body, and spot the mirror across the room.
It’s tall, propped in the corner by the basin, angled too high to be useful.
I half-rise from the bed and try to twist toward it, but all I manage is a blurry glimpse of my shoulder, a faint shimmer where the brand disappears down my back.
It’s too far. Too sharp an angle. And everything still aches like I’ve run a marathon in someone else’s body.
I make a soft sound of frustration and fall back against the mattress.
“I can’t see it.”
Caziel, still standing near the hearth, glances over his shoulder. “The mark?”
I nod. “I’ve felt it since I woke up. It’s like… it moves. Or breathes. I don’t know. I just—” I cut off with a breath. “I want to know what it looks like.”
He crosses to the mirror, adjusts it again. I try to follow the reflection but it’s hopeless. The glass only catches fragments—flickers of red-gold light when I move just right. Nothing complete. Nothing that feels real.
“I could draw it,” he offers, turning back to me.
My eyebrows rise. “You know how?”
“I’ve trained in anatomical sketching,” he says, matter of fact. “And glyph work. It’s part of my education.” He glances toward the desk near the window, scanning for ink and parchment, but after a moment of rifling through a drawer, he frowns. “Nothing here.”
“No artistic rendering today, then.”
He straightens, thoughtful. “If you were Daemari, I could feed you the image.”
I blink. “Feed me?”
He gestures to his temple. “We can share memory or certain impressions. It’s easiest if we are bonded or blooded, but it can still work. Visual threads. It’s not always precise, but it’s efficient.”
“So, you’re reading my mind?” I should throw something at him, right? That’s a gross violation of my privacy, but I can’t bring myself to care. I blame the burn. “Quick, what tell me what I just thought.” I try to frown but can’t put any weight behind it.
“No, Kay. I’m not reading your mind,” he murmurs. “I can’t take what you don’t offer, and I can’t feed you without your permission.”
“Like mystical Bluetooth, got it.” I grin at the disgruntled look in his eyes. He’s trying to hide it, but it’s not going well. Come on Caz, smile. I’m okay. It’s fine. Probably. “Wait, but didn’t you once say…” He did once time, right?
Caz’s lips thin, as if he isn’t sure how to explain.
Maybe he’s not sure I’ll believe him. “It is possible for someone powerful to search without notice. I did try, once, but the time you’re referring to…
” he shrugs, it’s uncharacteristic of him to not have an answer.
“It didn’t go looking. It’s like the memories circumvented intention.
I’m not sure quite how it worked, but I assume it has to do with you being human. ”
I watch him a beat longer, then say, “Trace it.”
His eyes snap to mine. “What?”
“Show me. With your fingers.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Just looks at me—like he’s trying to figure out if I understand what I’m asking. Maybe I don’t. Maybe I do. But I’m too tired to care about what it means right now. I just want something to make this real. He hesitates.
“Kay—”
“It doesn’t burn anymore,” I say softly. “It’s just there. Like a sore muscle. An echo. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”
Still, he hesitates. I pull at the hem of the tunic, lifting it slowly over my head. The air is cool on my skin, the covers pool in my bare lap, and I don’t miss the way his jaw tightens as I sit there in nothing but the firelight. He resolutely keeps his eyes on mine. I arch a brow.
“This yours?”
“The tunic?” he asks, voice a little rougher.
“Mm.”
“It is.”
I smile. “Thanks for sharing.”
“Don’t thank me,” he says immediately. “It was necessary.”
I snort, then glance down at myself and sigh. “I’m not really built for modesty,” I mutter, covering my chest with one arm. “Not unless I grow a third hand to hide these puppies. Let’s just ignore them, okay?”
His expression twitches—tight, but there’s something like amusement behind it. And I give him credit. His eyes don’t stray to my tits. Not even once. He has self-control to rival a saint staring down the mouth of hell.
“Show me.” I lie down, settling face-first on the bed with my cheek to the pillow. “Please.”
The mattress shifts under his weight. He moves with care—no rush, no sound beyond the faint rustle of fabric and the quiet exhale of his breath.
The fire cracks once in the hearth behind him.
I keep my eyes closed, cheek pressed to the cool pillow, the tension in my shoulders pulling tight and then easing.
Then his fingers touch my back. I inhale sharply.
It doesn’t hurt, but I feel his touch and the heat of mark. Just real. Present.
He starts low, at the curve of my spine, just above the small of my back.
His fingers trace upward slowly, following lines I can’t see, only feel.
Not as skin. Not even as pain. It’s like heat echoing down into bone, like someone tapping on an old bell.
I don’t flinch. I don’t burn. But I shiver, and his fingers pause against my back.
“You’re not hurting me,” I murmur into the pillow.
He exhales, the sound close—tight, controlled.
It reminds me of that kids’ game I used to play in elementary school.
Drawing silly notes and pictures on someone’s back and having them guess the message.
Maybe I should have remembered how bad I was at that game.
His hand moves higher, fingertips grazing the ridges of the mark.
I imagine the lines: curling, branching, winglike maybe.
It pulses faintly beneath his touch—not pain, not pleasure, just something so intimate I can barely hold still beneath it.
“There’s symmetry across the shoulder blades,” he says quietly. “The lines taper down and out, like flame, but also… like branches. It’s not like any mark I’ve ever seen.”
“Is it pretty?” I ask, not sure why the question slips out. “The brand?”
He pauses.
“Yes,” he says at last.
My throat tightens. His fingers trail toward the edge of my shoulder, just below the bone. I feel him hesitate again.
“You can keep going.”
He does, tracing the full arc of the pattern from spine to shoulder, across to the opposite side, and back again.
When he nears my neck, something in me pulls taut, breath catching.
It is not because of the heat, but him. There’s no pressure in his touch.
No demand. Just care. Reverence. Like he’s memorizing me. Or mourning something.
“You don’t have to do all of it,” I say, barely above a whisper. “If you’d rather—”
“I want to.”
The words are so quiet I almost believe I imagined them.
He keeps going. Fingertips slow and steady, brushing my bare skin like I might disappear.
I don’t know how long we stay like that—his hand moving in careful, reverent lines across my back, and me breathing into the silence, trying not to tremble.
It’s not desire. Not exactly. But it’s something more intimate than I’m used to surviving.
Something that sinks into the space behind my ribs and settles there.
I could fall asleep like this.
I might have, if not for the way the door crashes open with a bang and a breathless, half-strangled voice calls out, “Kay?”
Caziel jerks back so fast the mattress shifts.
I bolt upright without thinking, the blanket tangled somewhere beneath me, the tunic nowhere near where I need it to be.
Sarai stands in the doorway, wild-eyed, her hands still braced against the doorframe.
She stares. I freeze. Caziel is still sitting beside me, back stiff, one hand halfway extended like he doesn’t know what to do with it now.
His face is unreadable, but I can feel the tension radiating off him.
Sarai doesn’t say anything for a full two seconds. And then her face crumples. She lets out a gasping sob and crosses the room in three quick strides, dropping to her knees beside the bed and grabbing both of my hands.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—I didn’t think you’d be—gods, you’re awake—”
I blink, stunned by the sheer emotion in her voice. “Uh. Yeah. Apparently.”
She starts crying in earnest, shoulders shaking, her fingers gripping mine like a lifeline.
“You wouldn’t wake up. I kept coming, and nothing changed. You were so still. I thought—” She breaks off, voice cracking. “I thought you were going to fade.”
My throat goes tight. “Sarai, I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay,” she sniffs. “You were on fire. I saw what it did to you. I felt it.”
I shift awkwardly, pulling the blanket up over my chest with one hand while patting her shoulder with the other.
“I’m not dead. No ash piles. See? Very un-faded.”
She lets out a wet, half-hysterical laugh. “You’re such a veshka.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “But apparently, I’m a branded brat now.”
She snorts and wipes her eyes, visibly trying to pull herself together. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t,” I say, too quickly. Then realize how that sounds. “I mean, there was nothing to interrupt, but it’s fine. I’m fine.”
Caziel rises and crosses to the hearth, giving us space without a word.
Sarai sniffles once more and straightens her shoulders.
“I wanted to come say goodbye.”
The word lands hard. I frown. “Goodbye?”
She glances at Caziel.
Caziel nods. “All contenders move once their acceptance is confirmed. You’re officially part of the Rite now. No more palace privileges.”
“The barracks?” I echo, blinking. Were those on my realm tour? “So, I get a glowing back, and you kick me out of my fluffy bed?”
“You get a bunk, a footlocker, and a daily schedule designed to break your spirit.”
“Lovely.”
Sarai gives a watery laugh but wipes at her face again, trying to pull herself together. Her expression softens when she looks at me—still teary, still fragile in the way grief is fragile, but calmer now.
“And I wont’ see you again?”
I swear Caz has that disgruntled look again.
“You will, but Sarai is stationed at the keep and contact will undoubtedly be more limited.”
“I packed your things,” she says. “What little there was. Left the Ember-stained tunic folded separately, just in case you want it.”
“I’m not sure if I want to frame it or burn it.”
She stands, brushes her hands against her thighs. “There’s clothing in the locker. Standard issue. Nothing fits well, but you’ll look terrifying anyway.”
“High praise.”
Sarai smiles. Not a polite one. Not for show. A real, proud, sister-warm kind of smile that makes my chest ache.
“You scared the hell out of me,” she says softly.
“I seem to be making a habit of that lately.”
She hesitates like she wants to say more—but instead, she just nods. “I’ll try to visit when I can. Take care of her.” She commands the Daemari prince.
He answers without hesitation. “Always.”
And with that, Sarai slips out, closing the door gently behind her. The room goes quiet. The fire pops once, like punctuation. I sink back into the mattress, exhaling slowly.
“Guess this is real now.”
Caziel doesn’t move. “I’m sorry, Kay.”
I want to tell him it’s not his fault. I don’t.
“So,” I say finally, “what now? Is there an orientation packet? A pamphlet titled So You’ve Been Claimed by Sentient Fire? Do I get a welcome scroll? Maybe a flaming dagger and a map to the nearest unmarked grave?”
Caziel turns his head slowly from the hearth, one brow lifting.
“That’s the first thing you want to know?”
I shrug beneath the blanket. “I figure if I’m officially part of the death tournament, I should know where the snacks are. I assume that info is in my orientation paperwork.”
A breath escapes him—somewhere between a sigh and the start of a laugh. He shakes his head and moves closer, the firelight outlining his profile like something carved from old myth.
“You will be escorted to the barracks after first meal,” he says. “You have been assigned a private bunk. There is a schedule in the footlocker—combat, realm study, weapons, endurance, strategy, history.”
“Wow,” I murmur. “So, it’s like grad school. But instead of debt, I might die.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s not entirely inaccurate.”
I tilt my head. “And how long until the first trial?”
“No more than a week. Less, if the court wants a show. The Flame can occasionally be persuaded to follow a schedule.”
“Of course they do,” I mutter. “Nothing says ‘strong leadership material’ like publicly traumatic theatre.”
His expression sharpens, just for a moment. “It is more than a show. You will be surveilled by the court and the Flame. Every choice you make. Every word you say. Even how you walk into a room.”
“So no pressure.” We both know that has been my reality since… I frown. How did I get here again?
Caziel doesn’t smile, but his eyes soften. “Pressure has already made you into something they don’t know how to define.”
I fall quiet at that. There’s too much in that sentence, and I don’t know how to hold it all.
After a moment, I ask, “Do I get a chaperone for all this? A Rite buddy? A court-appointed friend?” Sarai already said her goodbyes. I imagine Caz’s are coming any minute.
“You get me.”
I blink.
“Every contender is assigned a mentor.” He holds my gaze. “I chose you.”
The words land like a drop of molten metal in my stomach—small, dense, impossibly heavy.
“You chose me?”
He nods once. “Before anyone else could. While I still have that right.”
I sit with that a second longer than I should. “Is that a thing you do often? Claim mysterious girls who fall out of the sky and catch on fire?”
His expression doesn’t change. “No.”
My throat tightens, just a little.
“Why?” I ask. “Why me?”
He looks at me like it’s obvious.
“Because you survived what should have broken you,” he says softly. “Because you listened even when the answers were awful. And because you still have not asked for power, even now that you have it.”
I exhale, slow and unsure. “That sounds like a terrible résumé.”
“It’s the only one that matters.”
He does not touch me. He does not move any closer. But I feel it anyway, something binding, quiet, and sure. We’re in this together.
“Alright,” I whisper, pulling the blanket tighter. “Guess I better not embarrass my new mentor.”
His voice drops to something warmer. “Too late for that.”
“Caziel,” I grin, teeth showing. “That was incredibly rude.”