Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
KAY
By the time I limp back to my alcove, the sun’s lowered enough to throw long shadows across the barracks floor.
I wish I had a curtain for my alcove, and debate hanging a sheet over my door, but I’m not sure how to hang it.
And no one is paying me a lick of attention now anyway.
Maybe privacy isn’t a big deal in Daemari culture?
Not after a whole day together. George is already curled on the narrow mattress, snoring like he’s had the hardest day of all.
I sit on the edge of the bed and finally let the aches bloom.
My ribs throb. My thighs are one long bruise.
My shoulder screams every time I shift it wrong, which is always.
I peel the practice tunic off and wipe at the sweat and grit.
The flame mark on my back hums. It doesn’t hurt; it breathes.
Like it’s waiting. Like it saw everything I did today and is still deciding if I was worth the effort.
“Truth and desire,” I mutter to no one. “Great. Simple. Terrifying.”
George blinks one lazy eye open, then closes it again as if to say get over it.
I feed him a bit of dried meat from the rations in my trunk, then lie back, arm slung over my eyes.
The silence buzzes. I can still hear Captain Rehn barking instructions outside.
Metal on stone. Someone laughing. A blade being sharpened too close. The low murmur of conversation.
Then a knock against the door jamb. Soft. Deliberate. I sit up, startled.
“Come in?” I say, instantly regretting the upward lilt in my voice. Confidence, or something. I sit up to see Elira Voss stands there. He’s barefoot, ink-smudged fingers tucked behind his back, hair pulled half up, half loose. Violet streaks catch the last rays of sun.
“I’m not interrupting,” he says. It is not a question. Although it might be the first words he has said directly to me.
“No,” I say, brushing a hand over my tangled braid. “Just lying here, contemplating death and maybe a snack.”
That gets the smallest smile from him. Barely there, but real. He doesn’t step inside, just lingers at the edge.
“I saw you fight Varo,” he says after a pause. “You didn’t win.”
I blink. “Thanks?” I hadn’t thought I did, but the observation still stings.
“But you didn’t freeze,” he continues. “Not even when he aimed for the brand. That had to hurt.”
I shrug, regretting it instantly when my shoulder screams again. “Guess that’s progress.”
“It is,” he says.
There’s weight in the words. Not quite flattery. More like a marker. We lapse into silence. I study him. I’ve seen him spar, sketch, stare into nothing like he’s building theories in his head. He’s a mystery wrapped in calm, and I can’t tell if that makes him dangerous or just tired.
“Have you done this before?” I ask, finally.
He tilts his head. “The Rite?”
“Yeah.”
“No one competes twice.” He says it with such finality that I straighten a little. “Not in the Rite, but one can receive the Emberbrand from the Flame for many reasons. You do know the Flame tenets, don’t you?”
I froze, halfway through tightening my boots. “Tenets,” I echoed. “Like commandments?”
Outside of my alcove, one of the larger contenders snorts a laugh, probably at my lack of knowledge, but Lyra Iskar shoots him a look sharp enough to draw blood, and he goes quiet. Elira doesn’t even glance at the others.
“Not commandments. Truths. Ten of them. The Flame isn’t law.
It is older than that.” He lifts his hand, one ink-stained finger raised, and I bite my lips to stop them from twitching.
Ten Commandments. Should have seen that coming.
“It crowns.” He lifted another. “It tests.” Another. “It remembers. And it binds.”
I frown, “Binds what?”
This time, Elira’s eyes flick up to mine. They are too pale for comfort, like smoke washed the color right out of them.
“Whatever it chooses. A ruler to the realm. A warrior to a weapon. Two souls to each other.” His voice stayed dry, even. Like it was no more remarkable than naming the stars.
My throat goes tight. I made myself busy with a loose thread at the edge of my blanket.
Elira goes back to his counting. “It translates, when you truly want to understand. Reflects what you will not admit. Creates and consumes in the same breath. Lies to no one.” His hand drops, smudged fingers curling into a fist. “And it always takes its price.”
“That’s nine,” I mutter, before I can stop myself.
A smile ghosts at his mouth. The first I’ve ever seen.
“You’ve been listening.” He closes the book with a thump.
The lamplight catches the violet streak in his hair; the black ink smeared at the edge of his jaw.
He looks at me in a way that makes the room go quieter than it has any right to be.
“The last tenet is the only one that matters.” His voice softens, as though it doesn’t belong to him anymore.
“The Flame chooses. Always, but it does not steal.”
The air prickles, hotter than the torches can justify. No one speaks. Even the contender who mocked me before keeps his eyes down. I swallow hard, wishing I hadn’t asked. Wishing I hadn’t listened. Because the way Elira said it, it sounded less like a lesson and more like a sentence. A punishment.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
I don’t not even a little bit, but I don’t want to admit it aloud. I also don’t want to lie. I was warned against it. He studies me for a moment more then flows to his feet, backing toward the curtain.
“You should eat,” he says. “You’ll need it.”
Before I can say thanks—or ask the dozen questions gathering on my tongue—he’s gone.
I sit there for a long time after, the silence heavier than before.
George purrs beside me, head nudging my leg like none of this is bigger than dinner.
But I know better now. The Rite isn’t just blood and steel.
It’s secrets. And I just stepped into the middle of all of them.
The main hall isn’t what I expect. It’s loud, but not in an organized way—more like a den that’s too small for the pack inside it.
Some contenders are at the long tables, eating and talking, but others sprawl on benches or sit cross-legged on the floor, polishing blades or running whetstones over gauntlets.
Someone’s laughter echoes from the far end, sharp and sudden.
The air smells like smoke, metal, and something sweet frying in oil.
A buffet line runs along the back wall. The servers are Vesperan.
Washed in silver light. Skin like pale marble, hair that catches every color when they move, eyes like rain on glass.
For a second I can’t help scanning for Sarai, even though I know she wouldn’t be here.
The absence still punches a hole through the noise.
When I reach the end of the line, one of them meets my gaze.
His expression is calm but not cold, curious, maybe.
I manage a quick, “Thank you,” when he hands me a plate.
It earns me the barest flicker of surprise, like he wasn’t expecting me to speak at all.
His lips part, but whatever he meant to say dies before it begins.
I move away fast, clutching my food like it’s a shield.
The tables are packed. A few contenders glance up when I pass, and the looks range from blank to bored to faintly amused.
The closest bench has space at the end, but sliding in feels like stepping into the cafeteria on the first day at a new school.
The same awkward shuffle, same flash of heat in my cheeks.
I sit anyway. No one tells me to move, but no one talks to me either.
The hum of the room wraps around me again, and then I start catching words under it—half-whispers, pitched just loud enough to hear.
“Thought she’d run by now.”
“She’s human, isn’t she?”
“Maybe that’s the point.”
I stab a piece of something crispy and wedge-shaped and keep my head down. The food’s good, but it tastes like nerves. I do my best to block out the comment drifting across the barracks like smoke, but each one stings.
“She shouldn’t even be here. The Flame must’ve flickered.”
Steel clatters to the stone floor, the sound hanging unfinished. Every head turns a little too slowly, like they all want to see what’s about to unfold. I ignore them in favor of my plate. I don’t move. I’m still learning which things you fight and which ones you survive.
“So what?” Varo’s voice cuts through the hall before anyone else breathes. “You worried she’ll make it?”
He doesn’t even look up from the blade he’s cleaning.
The motion stays lazy, deliberate. There’s no threat in it—just certainty, like the words are gravity and everyone else is pretending not to fall.
His grin is anything but friendly, and I hold my breathe even as I spoon another bite of rich broth.
The silence after is heavier than the training floor.
I can feel it pressing behind my ribs, waiting for someone to flinch. Lyra’s the one who does.
“The Flame doesn’t flicker, it chooses with purpose,” she says, voice calm as tempered steel. “She’s marked. That’s enough.”
Something in the room settles at that. The others glance away.
Shoulders ease. Because that’s what they all believe here—the Flame is never wrong.
If it chose me, then I’m meant to be here.
If it kills me, then I wasn’t. A modern-day witch trail.
Okay, maybe not modern, but still. The kind of blind faith they build kingdoms on—and graves.
“Maybe.” Varo exhales, soft, almost bored. “I guess we’ll see.”
He wipes the blade clean and sets it down like he’s finished a conversation no one else realized they were having. I don’t know which sentiment unsettles me more, Lyra’s certainty or Varo’s doubt.