Chapter 30 #2
I freeze. He finally looks up. Not smirking. Not mocking. Just… watching.
“Nyxen saw it too,” I say before I can stop myself.
Varo snorts. “Of course they did. Vale collects signs like others collect trinkets.”
“What do you collect?” I ask.
He leans back. “Survivors.”
I can’t tell if that’s a warning or an offer. His gaze lingers too long on my face. Not lecherous, analytical. Like he’s measuring a thing that shouldn’t be possible.
“Fascinating. It’s like standing near a sword that hasn’t been drawn yet.”
My spine goes rigid. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I don’t know what cut through you, but something did. And whatever’s left is sharper.” He leans forward, elbows braced on the table, smirk twisting his lips.
“Wow,” I say. “Was that a threat, or just your version of a pep talk?”
“Neither.” His voice drops low, almost a rasp. “Just an observation.”
George climbs up into his lap like they’ve been bonded for years. Varo doesn’t smile. Doesn’t scowl. Just rests a hand lightly on George’s back.
“You’re not ready,” he says.
“For what?”
“The trials, the Rite. You are woefully unprepared.” He tilts his head, studying me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he’s already half-finished.
“But that’s the thing about the Rite. Doesn’t care.
” I flinch. He shrugs, like that’s all the conversation deserves, and turns back to his plate.
“Take your cat if you want,” he says. “Or leave him. Either way, he’ll be fine.
” The unsaid part hangs there: You might not be.
I don’t thank him. I don’t take George. I just walk away, spine straight, heart hammering and I don’t look back.
I make it halfway back to the table before the sound hits.
A bell—no, not a bell. A note. Low. Resonant.
It doesn’t echo in the room. It echoes in me.
In the hollow of my ribs, in the marrow of my bones.
Every contender freezes. Forks still in hand.
Cups raised. Like time itself took a breath.
Another tone rises. Slightly higher. Somehow deeper.
Not in volume, but in weight. Like the air just folded in half.
And then the lights go out, but not completely.
Every lantern. Every floating orb of light.
Every enchanted spark or gentle flame that lit the hall just a second ago—snaps into darkness.
And when they return, they are no longer warm.
They burn with that same blackened edge I saw in Caziel’s magic.
The color of memory. Of night. Of ash that still remembers the fire.
No one speaks.
Lyra Iskar is the first to move. She sets her spoon down carefully, as if the wrong noise might break something fragile. Her dark eyes shimmer faintly, like ink catching on a spell circle.
“Obsidian,” Elira says, voice barely above a whisper.
I stare at him. “What?”
“The trial,” he murmurs. “The Rite. It’s begun.”
Around the room, contenders start to move, some slow, some stunned. Caelthar, with the rings, curses softly in a language I don’t know. Malrik shoves to her feet, fists clenched, mouth a thin line of dread.
“What does that mean?” I ask again. “What’s the Obsidian trial?”
But Elira doesn’t answer. Not because he’s being cruel, because his gaze is fixed on the shadows now curling at the edge of each flame, and for the first time since I’ve met him, he looks scared.
The bell’s sound still hums in my ribs long after it fades.
Everyone is moving now—benches scraping, trays abandoned, murmurs breaking into panic and purpose.
The air tastes metallic, the way lightning smells before it hits.
Shadows dart and blur as contenders head for the main corridor.
I don’t follow. George is under the bench, tail puffed, eyes wide.
He makes a small, uncertain sound—half hiss, half plea. My chest aches.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, scooping him up. “It’s okay, baby. You’ll be safe.”
I speed walk, keeping low through the crush of bodies until I reach the sleeping wing.
My feels like it shudders when I dart inside.
The air inside is cooler, quieter, like the rest of the world has been sealed out.
I set George on the bed. He circles once, then curls tight into the blanket, watching me with wide gold eyes.
“I’ll come back,” I tell him, though my voice cracks. “Stay here. Please. And if I don’t—” find Caziel, not Varo. That’s what I want to say but the words get stuck in my throat and when I turn, Caziel is already there.
He’s standing by the door, half-shadowed, one hand braced on the frame. I don’t even ask how he got in.
“The bell,” I say.
“I know.”
“The lights changed,” I go on. “All the flames—they went dark. Like you showed me.” He nods, jaw tight, but doesn’t meet my eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me it would be so soon?”
“Because I didn’t know,” he says quietly.
“You’re supposed to know.”
Now he looks up. And gods help me—he’s afraid.
“I thought we had more time,” he says. “The first trial wasn’t supposed to be called yet.”
“Then why—”
“I don’t know.” His voice cracks sharp, the closest I’ve heard to shouting. “Something’s shifted in the threads. I felt it. And now Obsidian is moving.” His jaw tenses, the edges of his form flickering in and out of focus. The room feels smaller suddenly. I can’t catch a full breath.
“I don’t feel ready.”
“You’re not.” It isn’t cruel—just true.
“I can’t fight,” I whisper. “Every part of me aches. I can’t do this.
Even George doesn’t think I can.” My breath breaks, heat burning behind my eyes.
“He ate breakfast with Varo,” I say thickly, tears burning at the corners of my eyes.
And I’m pathetic this is pathetic. I’m a goddamn mess.
No wonder everyone thinks I’m going to die. I can’t do this.
Caz’ expression flickers—barely a breath—but the way he steps forward is immediate. Like it matters. Like I matter. His arms come around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on.
“You can do this, Kay.” His voice is low against my hair. “You made it through yesterday. You will make it through this.” I don’t answer. I can’t.
He eases back just enough to look at me. “Fighting does not matter here. Not against grief. Not against memory. You already know that.” His hands tighten briefly on my shoulders. “All the training was just to give you something to hold on to. You can do this alone.”
I don’t answer. I’m afraid if I open my mouth again, I’ll scream or cry or both. Instead, I just look at him, and he looks back like I’m something he can’t undo. A thread already tugged loose.
Outside, the second bell tolls—lower, heavier. Caziel flinches.
“It is time. Do not make them come collect you.”
He palms the blade he gave me and tucks it into the belt at me waist. His fingers find my wrist—warm, steady.
I think he means to let go, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he pulls a small charm from beneath his collar.
It catches the low light, hanging off a thin gold chain.
It’s small, about the size of my knuckle, but bright enough to seem alive.
A droplet of deep red glass, banded in gold filigree fine as molten lace.
Through its center runs a narrow seam, a perfect straight line where the light bends differently, as if something invisible moves inside.
The split is not a flaw. It is deliberate, a channel.
At the base, a single bead of black volcanic stone anchors the pendant, rough against the smooth heat of the glass.
It looks ordinary until it catches the light, and then the red flares like something breathing.
When he presses it into my palm, it feels warm—almost pulsing. A living thing pretending to be jewelry.
“Take this,” he says.
“What is it?”
“Protection. Of a kind. I carried this during my own first battle,” he says. “I never knew why I kept it. Now I do.”
He doesn’t explain further, and I don’t push. The pendant’s weight is solid when he slips it over my head, settling against my skin like it belongs there.
“It stays close,” he murmurs. “Even if I can’t.”
I almost tell him to stop talking like he’s not coming with me. Like he’s already on the other side of some line I haven’t crossed yet, but I don’t. I’m scared if I open my mouth, I’ll ask him not to let me go at all.
He lingers for a heartbeat, then reaches for a length of fabric from the footlocker.
The cloth is soft, the kind they use for sparring, but this feels different.
Slower. Reverent. His fingers move with precision, smoothing each turn, checking the tension, like it matters more now than it ever did before.
I can’t look at him. I’m afraid if I do, everything I’ve been holding in will spill out—every cracked part of me I’ve patched over to survive here.
I focus on the wrap. On the way his thumbs press into the base of my palm before each pass.
On how steady he is while I feel like I might shatter.
Without speaking, he kneels in front of me.
A prince on his knees. His fingers work with slow precision wrapping my wrists, smoothing each turn, testing the tension.
The silence between us is louder than the bells.
“You don’t need to be unbreakable,” he says quietly.
“You are stronger than you think, Sael. Trust your gut and look for the arch.” The words land in my chest like a spark in kindling.
When both wrists are bound, he stands. His hand lifts, brushing a stray piece of hair from my face. The touch is gentle, deliberate.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“You have every right to be afraid,” he says. “Don’t mistake that for weakness.”
He cups the back of my neck with one hand and leans in—forehead to forehead. My breath catches. In a voice I feel more than hear, he murmurs something in Daemari,
“Nai’thar emberan vey.”
The words hum through my skin like the bell did earlier. Not a command. Not even a promise.
A bond.
“What does it mean?” I ask, breathless.
He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze.
“Flame doesn’t forget who it touches.”
I nod, but the motion feels too small for what is in my throat.
Caziel swears in a language I don’t understand and finally closes the space between us.
His fingers are warm on my skin as he hauls me against his chest. Not burning.
Not blazing. But steady, like the low ember of a forge that never goes out.
I should pull away, say something biting, regain whatever control I thought I had.
Instead, I let him hold on wrapping my arms around his body too.
“I’m not ready,” I whisper.
His grip tightens, just a little. “No one ever is.”
I look up at him. At his too-sharp face and eyes that shouldn’t hold so much softness.
There’s tension in his jaw, the same strain I’ve seen in the training ring.
But he’s not fighting me now. Not correcting.
Not commanding. He’s just here. And I want—Gods, I want— Something flickers between us. Not just heat. Not just fear. Longing.
I take a step closer before I realize I’ve moved.
He doesn’t flinch. His eyes drop to my mouth for the briefest second, and it’s all I can do not to close the distance.
It would be easy. Just tilt my face up. Just lean in.
But I don’t and neither does he. The moment stretches, coils—then softens.
Caziel releases me. Slow. Measured. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he moves too fast. His fingers brush my cheek. Just barely. A ghost of touch.
A knock cuts through the stillness—three sharp raps against the stone arch. Sarai slips inside before either of us speaks. Her hair is slicked back, her breathing fast, cheeks flushed pink from running. A small silver pin gleams in her hand.
“You need your hair up,” she says, “Tight. Out of your face.
“Is that—required?”
“It is if you want to see what’s coming.”
I sit on the edge of my cot, and she moves behind me with quick, sure fingers, weaving my hair close to my scalp.
Each braid is tight, like Lyra’s, efficient, a soldier’s coil meant to hold.
Caziel stands back, silent. I can feel his eyes on me, the weight of his restraint.
Sarai doesn’t speak until she fastens the final braid and pins it in place.
Then she leans close, breath warm against my temple.
“Whatever you see in there,” she whispers, “do not forget where you are. Who you are.”
The bell peals again. Louder, final. Sarai straightens. Caziel steps back, fists clenched at his sides like he wants to reach for me again, stop this from happening. But he doesn’t.
And I don’t run.
I just tuck the pendant tighter against my skin, square my shoulders and go.