The Devil May Care

Prologue

The fire hummed low in the grate—steady as a heartbeat beneath the stone. Ash drifted in lazy spirals each time the wind pressed against the shutters.

“Mama,” the child whispered, drawing the blanket to her chin, “is it true the Brand has come?”

Her mother stilled. The needle in her hand paused above the mending.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Outside. The bakers were talking. They said the bells mean the Rite’s has come again.”

A faint line formed between the woman’s brows.

“People gossip when the nights grow long. You mustn’t listen.” She tried to smile, but the corners of her mouth rebelled.

“The Rite doesn’t rise without cause. The Asmodeus still rules. May his flame burn eternal.”

“But they said someone’s been marked,” the child insisted. “They said the Flame chose early.”

The mother’s breath caught. She glanced toward the hearth as if the fire might answer. Its light flickered red-gold across her face, softening the worry in her eyes.

“That’s not possible, my emberling. The Flame sleeps until it’s called.

It does not wake while a Asmodeus yet lives.

He protects all of Crimson.” She reached out and brushed soot from the child’s cheek, her voice turning gentle, wrapped in old lilt that made even sorrow sound like song.

“Now hush. Dream of warm fields and bright skies. The world is safe while his fire still burns.”

The child nodded, but the question lingered in her eyes. She knew what she had heard, recognized the worry in the whispered words.

From somewhere beyond the walls, a bell tolled low and heavy enough to rattle the shutters. Another followed, and another, rolling through the night like thunder over stone. The mother rose, sewing forgotten, her hand pressed to her heart.

In the silence between peals, she could hear the Flame breathing—slow, vast, awake.

The Rite was rising, even as the Asmodeus still reigned.