Chapter 2 #2
It’s not. Humans are not supposed to pass into our world.
They are not recognized by the Flame and not given entry past our wards, but she managed to.
She could be given sigil and a return attempted, but there is no record of a soul bond with a human.
It may not take, and if it did whoever offered would be tied to the mortal for life.
If she survived the trip in, she would probably survive the trip out, but there are few in Crimson are powerful enough to cast for another.
It doesn’t matter. None will attempt if the Asmodeus forbids it.
I remain silent, though the weight of the game sharpens around me. He is leading me. Slowly. Deliberately. I can feel the noose tightening, the walls shifting closer, I just do not recognize his end game.
“We cannot yet determine how she arrived, or what was displaced to make room for her. Such anomalies are… delicate.”
“She’s mortal,” I say. “Let the scholars assess her, then find someone to bond her and send her home.” If she can’t go back without a Daemari claim, then find someone, anyone, willing to provide it.
For some reason he wants her to be my problem. No thank you.
“That is precisely what I thought,” he lies smoothly. “But the scholars are wary. She must remain under watch until we are certain she poses no risk. The Rite is sacred and can be delicate.”
I don’t roll my eyes but it’s a near miss.
The Rite is sacred, sure, but it’s far from delicate.
It cannot be both all knowing, all powerful, and in need of protection.
I’m sure the scholars know this. Just as I’m sure my father played no role in the request that the human stay.
This is his angle. I feel the trap before he springs it.
“I am assigning her to you,” he says.
There it is.
“No.”
“You will observe her. Question her. Ensure she does not destabilize the flame’s rise. Not at such a delicate time.”
Delicate. What a joke. They can’t have it both ways. Either the flame is fate, destiny, all knowing, or it’s vulnerable to outside influence. Both can’t be true, but no one says a word.
“I will not be used to vet your pet anomalies.”
My father steps closer, just enough for the court to feign deafness and still hear every syllable. “You have refused the Rite. You have withdrawn from all ceremonial duties. And yet, you still carry the name Draeth. If you are not heir, then you must at least be useful.”
House Draeth. I laugh once, without humor.
“And if she were dangerous?” I know his answer before he gives it.
“Crimson’s duty, the Flame’s duty, is to her people. Not outsiders.”
She would be dead. He would have seen to it himself.
“Why me?”
“You have my trust.”
We both know that to be a lie. He trusts I will not let her die without cause. He trusts that I know how to bury emotion beneath function. He trusts that I am still the blade he forged, even if I’ve turned from his war. He assumes that I will allow her to distract me. He is wrong.
“I want her monitored closely,” he says, turning back to the council. “Until we know what she is, and what the breach means for the Emberbrand. We need thirteen to proceed.”
I watch the council nod, pretending this is not theater. I say nothing more, but I cannot ignore the sense of subtle, pointed cruelty. He does not assign this task to a court sycophant or low-tier Flamekeeper. He gives her to me because he knows it will unnerve me. Or he hopes as much.
A mortal in the Wasteland. A soul the flame cannot read. And now, my responsibility.
He thinks I will drag her into the fold. But he forgets. I remember what it means to lose someone I could not protect. He wants me to take up the helm of protector. Or he wants me tied up as the rite proceeds. Or some other nefarious hidden plot. I will not fall for it. Not this time. Not again.
The court disperses slowly, like blood cooling after a kill. Chatter rises in low waves: the Emberbrand, the mortal girl, the Flame Crown. All of it speculation stacked upon old fear. I make no effort to engage. I move through them as I always do—untouched. Untouchable.
Solonar falls into step beside me in the corridor behind the dais, just as I knew he would.
“You were quiet longer than usual,” he says mildly. “I expected sparks, a show.”
“I have little interest in playing to an audience.” Unlike some, I don’t say.
He hums in agreement. “Yet somehow the script always drags you back in.”
“You were the one who said walking away would buy peace.” I glance at him sidelong.
“I also said you wouldn’t stay gone.”
We walk in silence for a stretch. The braziers here burn low, casting long shadows across the hall’s sigil-carved walls. The oldest stories are etched into the stone, flame-birthed runes glowing faintly beneath our feet.
“You believe the Rite should not rise,” I say quietly.
He’s quiet for a breath. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Solonar exhales through his nose. “There are others who feel similarly, for varied reasons. The Rite is tradition. But that does not mean it is untouchable. The Flame is dimming for your father. It is time whether we will it or not.”
“To say so aloud would be treason.”
“And yet you say it.”
“I am permitted some discontent. They still believe I will change my mind.”
He arches a brow. “Won’t you?”
“No.”
Another pause.
“The Flame Crown is weakening,” he concedes. “Your father still burns, but his fire dims. The realm senses it. The Emberbrand rises. It must choose another.”
“It will not be me.”
He eyes me. “You’re certain?”
“I do not need to feel the pull. I know it. The brand does not mark those who have no will to claim.” The Flame holds space for free will, even if many in Crimson do not believe so. They see the flame as omnipotent. I know better.
Solonar folds his hands behind his back. “Then perhaps your duty lies in this girl.”
I stop.
“That is not a jest I find amusing,” I say. It falls too closely in line with my father’s command.
“It wasn’t one,” he replies. “The Asmodeus’ wishes aside, she arrived under impossible conditions. She survived the Wasteland. She is an anomaly. Who better to study her than the disillusioned Ember heir.”
“My father intends her to be my leash.”
“Probably,” he says with a shrug. “But you’ve worn leashes before and know how to bite through the yoke.”
I hate that he is right. I start walking again and Solonar follows.
“She doesn’t belong here,” I say.
“She’s here nonetheless.”
“She’s mortal.”
“Are not the Vesperan? Was not Isaeth.” The words cut sharp, but I do not answer. It is not the same. Many Daemari act like the Vesperan are akin to humans, but they are of Infernalis, of Crimson. Flame marked or not this is their home. Their world. Not having power does not mean they are mortal.
We reach the outer chamber. A balcony curves into open space, high above the city. Crimson light stains the clouds; the sun here never sets—it smolders. Just like everything else. Solonar leans against the stone rail.
“The Flame will rise. The Rite will begin. The brand will appear. And your father’s reign will end—whether by will or by death.”
I do not argue. The truth does not require repetition.
“How long does he have?” I ask instead.
Solonar tilts his head. “He hides it well. But you saw the Crown. It flickers. The brand has already marked too many for the Asmodeus to burn for much longer. The Rite rises and cannot be stopped.”
And there it is. The Rite is called by the Flame, not the Asmodeus, no matter how my father claims dominion over the heart of the realm.
The Flame has all but abandoned my father.
He cannot continue to claim the flame’s divine providence as it also pulls the crown from his blood-stained grip.
I stare out at the horizon, where the flame-choked air coils above the Obsidian Reaches.
Far from here. Too far for memory to follow.
Solonar speaks more softly now. “Caziel, if the Flame does choose you—”
“It won’t.”
“If it does—”
“Then the Flame is wrong.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Weighted with loss. With knowing. People have lost everything for the same claim.
I turn to leave.
“Watch her carefully,” Solonar says. “She may surprise you.”
“So did the last one.”
And this time, I do not look back.