Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
KAY
“Imiss coffee,” I announce, flopping back onto the plush mattress.
Sarai glances up from where she’s refolding towels with far too much precision. “You had some yesterday.”
“That was not coffee. That was a cruel prank.” I should have known when she held the cup out to me with a gleeful smile. I’ve been here for a few days now, I think. Or at least three times I’ve fallen asleep and woken up still in Hell. Crimson.
“It was roasted bark steeped in lava water.”
“Exactly.” I stick out my tongue and Sarai hides her smile. Barely. I drag myself upright against the pillows. “Do you people even have caffeine?” When she frowns, I add, “You know, the stuff that gives you energy? Makes your heart race? See sounds and hear colors?”
“We have stimulants.”
“That’s not the same.”
“Stimulants give you energy, make your heart race, and can create bouts of synesthesia.”
I wave my hand in the air, “Fine, yes, caffeine is a stimulant but it’s not like speed. Or tequila. People drink it in the morning. To wake them up. Prepare for the day.”
I may or may not have an addiction I’m not willing to discuss. She frowns again, but she rises, crosses the room, and sets a warm ceramic cup in my hands.
“Its name roughly translates to fire tea,” she says, sitting at the foot of the bed. “It is used for the same purpose.”
I take a cautious sip and flinch. It tastes like cinnamon if I set it on fire and it held a grudge. I try to smile without letting smoke unfurl out of my nostrils.
“It’s good.” I give her a shaky thumbs up.
“You’ll live.” Sarai says, hiding her smile behind the flat of her hand.
“Not with tastebuds,” I grouse, but I take another sip. The second taste isn’t quite as volatile. The heat seems to burn the cobwebs out of my brain.
Sarai and I fall into easy rhythm. She refills my cup. I criticize the tea. She ignores me. She hands me a biscuit; I try not to let my head blow off as I take a bite. The room smells faintly of smoke and citrus—clean, sharp, oddly comforting.
I watch her smooth the linens again, then ask, “Is your current assignment to take care of me?”
“Spy you mean?” She shrugs. “When I’m not being cursed bread.”
“Still one of my favorite compliments. I’m taking that one home with me. It describes George perfectly.”
“George?”
Sarai doesn’t recognize the word cat, but my charade skills are surprisingly handy.
“This murder cloud creature is your friend?” And honestly, murder cloud creature might be the best description of a house cat I’ve ever heard.
I nod. “He’s practically family.”
She rolls her eyes. “You should raise your standards. The Embermaw are dangerous.”
“Embermaw?” It’s her turn to act out the unknown word.
She does so but arching her back, making hissing sounds, and flailing her limbs like an inflatable tube guy at a used car lot.
Either she sucks at charades or it’s a Saber-toothed hell-beast, set ablaze like Burning Man. I decide I don’t want to know.
“Oh, I did,” I say. “That’s why I’m talking to you and not, you know, the guy with the eyebrows that scream ‘I set villages on fire for sport.’”
“That could describe many Daemari.”
I take another sip. “Fair.”
There’s a lull—comfortable, quiet—and I find myself watching the way the light cuts across the shimmering braid tucked under a kerchief. Sharp shoulders and nose. Pale eyes that don’t quite match her smile, ringed in translucent lashes.
She’s beautiful. And unreadable.
“Do you have family here?” I ask suddenly. She hesitates. “A job, obviously. But—people?”
“I’m assigned to the castle keep,” she says carefully. “I serve.”
I frown. “That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.” She doesn’t offer more. I shift tracks.
“Okay. Then tell me about Crimson. I know Fire is a big deal. Tell me the rest.”
That earns a real smile. “The deal?”
“Yes. I’ve fallen into your world and survived death-by-political-jargon, so I feel like I’ve earned one good story.”
Sarai hums thoughtfully. “All right. But you asked for it.”
She launches into a tale that would put any university mythology professor to shame. Seven realms. Seven Sovereigns. Each one born—manifested—from an emotion so intense it warped the fabric of Infernalis.
And I hang on every word.
“In the beginning, there was only the First Flame.
It burned alone in the dark, bright but aching, for fire is nothing without something to touch.
And so the Flame stretched out, spinning threads of magic into the endless night.
Seven threads it wove, each glowing with a different hue, each humming with a different song.
And into those threads reached seven siblings—born from nothing but longing, drawn from the Flame itself.
The eldest grasped the Crimson thread, and passion surged through their hands. With it, they forged a realm of molten rivers, wild gardens, and endless creation.
The second held the Obsidian thread, heavy and dark. It filled their heart with sorrow, and from their tears grew a kingdom of memory, where nothing is forgotten.
The third reached for the Viridian thread, thorned and restless. Desire curled around them, sprouting forests that twist and hunger for what lies beyond their roots.
The fourth claimed the Cobalt thread, cold as steel. Fear took shape in their grip, and with it came piercing clarity, stripping all falsehood bare.
The fifth gathered the Gilded thread, bright as mirrors and gold. Pride shone through them, raising palaces of beauty where every surface reflects the self.
The sixth let fall the Umbral thread, soft as shadows. Stillness wrapped them close, weaving a realm where time lies sleeping and silence reigns.
The youngest caught the Argent thread, sparkling with laughter. Joy burst forth, scattering into music, revel, and flame-lit festivals that never end.
The seven siblings knotted their threads together, and thus the fabric of Infernalis was woven tight—seven realms, seven colors, each bound to the Flame and to one another.”
Another pause. Her voice drops, thoughtful now.
“When the seven siblings first wove their realms, Crimson was the eldest, the first to seize a thread.
But the others warned them: Passion burns bright, but it also blinds. How will we know your rulers are strong enough to bear the Flame?”
Crimson answered, “Then let them be tested. Let the threads themselves judge.”
So, the siblings made a pact. Whenever the Emberbrand chose a bearer, the seven would weave together, each tugging on the thread until only one knot held fast.
Obsidian said: I will lay sorrow upon them. If they cannot carry memory, they will be forgotten.
Viridian said: I will bind them with longing. If desire unravels them, they are unworthy.
Cobalt said: I will strip them bare with fear. If they shatter, they were never whole.
Gilded said: I will dazzle them with pride. If they mistake glitter for gold, their flame will fade.
Umbral said: I will drown them in stillness. If they cannot rise from silence, they will never rule.
Argent said: I will tempt them with joy. If they flee to laughter and abandon duty, the thread will snap.
And Crimson swore: If they endure all this and still carry the Flame, then they will be bound to me. Their thread will become the knot that holds my realm together. They will be Asmodeus.
And thus, the Rite was born. Not just battle, but weaving.
Not just strength, but the proving of a soul against every color of Infernalis. The Rite is not a game of crowns. It is the knot of seven. Pull one thread, and the tapestry trembles. Endure them all, and you become the flame that binds a realm.”
“I like that.” I think I follow the story.
It reminds me of the creation myths back home.
A god shaping a world in seven days. A sky woman falling from the heavens to land on the back of a turtle Siblings stirring the primordial sea.
“All the siblings working together, not fighting each other, to control the seven realms. I’m not sure humans are capable of that.
All it takes it one person concerned more about themselves than anyone else to take advantage. ”
This time it is Sarai that frowns. “It is but a story, Kay. There is still war. Pain. Suffering. There are still those left out of the teachings as if they don’t exist at all. Those the flame has forgotten.”
“But how? If the Flame is all knowing, if it is the Flame that nominates the next ruler, how can it forget people that exist?”
She shrugs and my stomach drops. How could I have been that blind?
“Where do your people fit into the story, Sarai? If you cannot be marked by the flame, what happens during the Rite? If the Daemari are the ones pulling the threads, what about… you?”
Sarai’s hands still on the linens.
“We don’t. Not really. We’re the ones who cook the meals and clean the blood off the arena floor.
The footnotes at the bottom of history. You need magic, threads, to complete the trial, to rule Crimson.
” Her smile is biting, but not bitter. “But footnotes last longer than headlines. So maybe we’ll win in the end. ”
I sit with that for a minute. The fire crackles gently in the wall sconce, casting red-gold shadows across Sarai’s face.
She looks back at me like the story meant nothing, like she just explained a recipe or why the towels are folded into triangles.
But I see it. In the way her shoulders have gone still.
The way she watches me now—not guarded, not open—waiting.
Like she’s used to her words landing wrong.
Like she’s waiting for me to do what others always do: ignore the footnote.
Draw a line in permanent marker. Redact. Erase.
I lift the mug of fire tea and take another sip. Still terrible but I don’t wince.
“Okay. So, you’ve got gods made of emotions, a political system run by vibes, and a flame that plays favorites.”
Sarai snorts. “More or less.”
“And the way to fix things is…?”
“Complicated. Bloody. Unlikely.”