Chapter 55 #2
I want to scream. Or sleep. Or curl up so tight no one can reach me.
Because I don’t know. I don’t know the answers.
I don’t even know if these are the right questions.
I drowning. Sucking in water by the mouthful until there’s no room inside me for air or words or thoughts.
No room to answer. I’m failing. This is it.
This is my end. I made it to Argent and could go no further.
Does that bother me? Am I upset? Do I care? This wasn’t my fight.
And then I feel it, barely there at first. A soft thrum under my collarbone like a second heartbeat.
I lift a shaking hand and touch the spot without thinking.
The little pendant Caziel tucked beneath my shirt back in the arena.
Lava glass threaded with impossible fire.
The red orb pulses gently against my skin.
It’s warm. Alive. I inhale and feel the sweet air all the way in the tips of my toes.
Suddenly I’m not in the chair anymore. Not entirely.
Not alone. There’s the memory of a touch, large and callused, wrapping gently around my wrist. A voice—not speaking—but present.
Low and quiet, like thunder just out of reach.
“I see you.”
I don’t know if he ever actually said the words, but they’re true. I feel them in my gut.
The heat in the pendant pulses again, and this time the sensation rolls outward. Like a circle drawn in ash around me. A ward. A tether. My thoughts slow. My heart doesn’t, but it steadies.
I can feel the part of me that knows Caziel.
Not just his voice, or his hands, or the wicked way his mouth twists when I catch him off guard.
But the weight of him. The steadiness. The silence beneath all his fire.
I clutch the pendant tighter. And I swear, just for a second, I feel his fingers lacing through mine.
It’s not physical, just a memory, and it’s enough.
I lift my head. The woman across from me hasn’t moved.
The pages still flutter in place. The quill dances in the air like it’s writing something I haven’t even said yet, but she’s watching me differently now.
Like the trial felt the shift too. As if I didn’t answer with words—but the flame inside me did.
It doesn’t roar or flare or even rise. It just…
rests. Soft and quiet and patient. Waiting.
Like it knows I’ll come back to myself eventually. Like it trusts me to choose.
I open my eyes. The room hasn’t changed. But the way I fit inside it has. The woman still watches me, pen paused mid-air. But there’s no pressure now. No looming question. Just space. And for the first time since stepping through the archway, I feel like I’m not being hunted. I’m being seen.
Maybe this trial isn’t about getting the answers right.
Maybe it’s about remembering who I am when everything else is stripped away.
I don’t have all the answers. No one should.
There’s no one-size-fits-all option in in life.
I brush my fingers over the pendant again, and a crooked smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
Look at me, Kay Ward. Never had anyone in her corner, and now a man is throwing her lifelines.
“At least he’s pretty,” I mutter, more to the fire than the woman.
The air around us hums, amused.
“Would you rather be a savior, or a survivor?”
The hum under my skin deepens. It isn’t unpleasant—but it’s too much. I feel like a wire pulled too tight. I sit straighter. Try to steady my breath.
“Savior,” I say. But the word feels like a lie in my mouth.
No, not a lie—an echo.
The flame doesn’t stir. The woman doesn’t change.
But I can feel the realm reacting. Not with fire or fury, but…
disappointment? It’s like standing in front of someone who asks what your favorite color is, and you say red—even though it’s blue.
Because red seems like the right answer.
Because they’re wearing red. Because you think they’ll like you more. It makes my stomach twist.
The woman turns the page again.
“Would you rather forget pain, or remember joy?”
“Neither,” I say, almost before she finishes.
The quill stills. The light flickers. Her head lifts slightly, and this time, her eyes find mine with something like interest.
“No answer?”
“I gave one.”
“There is no line to mark it on.”
“Maybe there shouldn’t be.”
The silence stretches. I swear I feel the air shift around me. It thickens, then thins. The endless white dims just slightly—like a layer has been peeled back.
“Do you believe you are worthy of joy?”
I blink. That one stings. I don’t know if it’s the wording, or the tone, or the fact that for the first time, I’m not sure.
I open my mouth. Close it. Look down at my hands in my lap. The calluses across my palms, the blood under my nails. The thread tucked in my necklace. The feel of his skin against mine.
Am I?
The woman doesn’t repeat herself, but something in me whispers that silence is not the answer this time. I breathe in.
And then I answer honestly, “I don’t know.”
The light around us pulses. Not alarm. Not punishment.
Confirmation.
The woman watches me for a long time. Then she turns the final page. This time, the paper doesn’t scratch. There are no new questions. The pen lowers. Not in triumph. Not in warning. Just… grace.
The woman tilts her head, as if listening to something I can’t hear. The pages in front of her vanish. “You’ve given enough.”
The words settle in my chest like feathers, too light to hold—but too final to ignore.
“I didn’t answer everything.”
“No,” she agrees, her voice like ink soaked in silence. “But you answered truthfully. That matters most.”
I swallow. Her expression shifts, not unkind, but weighty—like a storm cloud deciding whether to break. “You’ve walked far, Kay of the Other Flame. You’ve faced the illusions, the grief, the longing. But you do not have to keep walking.”
I go still. “What do you mean?”
She gestures—and the flame ripples behind her like breath exhaled. A shimmer appears, delicate and golden and real. A doorway opens—framed not by stone, but by warm morning light. Familiar air rushes in, smelling of damp concrete and subway grease and coffee in paper cups.
Home.
“You may go,” the woman says softly. “No more trials. No more flame. No more Crimson.”
It’s not a threat. It’s an offering. Everything I once begged for. But my hand goes instinctively to the pendant at my chest, fingers closing over it like a shield. I blink, hard.
“But… Caziel. The Rite—”
“Will continue without you.” She doesn’t flinch. “You are not meant for this place. You never were. You owe it nothing.” I don’t move. She studies me, calm as stone. “Why would you want to stay, child? This is hell.”
A breath escapes me—half laugh, half sob. “I thought so once, too.”
She frowns.
“I thought Crimson was hell. Fire and rage and cruelty.” I run my thumb along the jagged edge of the pendant. “But it’s not. Not really. There’s pain, yes. Suffering. But there’s beauty here too. Wonder. Even peace.” I glance back at her. “That’s more than I had before.”
Her gaze narrows slightly, the first real flicker of emotion I’ve seen.
“So why not go back to where you were happy?”
I freeze. There it is. The trick.
“I wasn’t,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. She lifts her brows. “I wasn’t happy back home.” I draw in a sharp breath. “I was numb. I went through the motions. Got up. Fed my cat. Worked. Slept. Cried in the shower. Smiled when people asked. I wasn’t living. I was surviving.”
The flame in the room pulses gently—like it hears me. Like it remembers.
“And here?” I lift my chin. “Here, I’ve been happy. Not always. Maybe not even most of the time. But I’ve been. In the barracks. Laughing with Sarai. Sparring with Elira. Arguing with Varo.” I smile. “Even bleeding with Caziel. I felt it all.”
She looks puzzled.
“You’ve found joy,” she says slowly, “in Hell.”
“Not Hell, Crimson.” I shake my head. “It’s messy. Loud. Unforgiving. But there’s life here. And I’m not ready to walk away from it.”
She tilts her head. “This isn’t your fight.”
“Isn’t it?” I whisper. “The flame marked me. I didn’t ask it to—but it chose me all the same.
And every time I’ve tried to walk away, it has dragged me back.
Maybe I’m not Daemari, maybe i’m not from Infernalis or Crimson or this world, but I’m here and I’m succeeding. And I’m going to see this through.”
The silence stretches—then folds in on itself like a bowstring relaxing.
“Why?” she presses again, softer now. “Even if you win… they may end you.”
I think of Caziel’s hands on mine. Of Varo’s quiet respect. Of Sarai braiding my hair so tight it made me feel unbreakable.
“Then they do,” I say simply. “But at least I’ll have finished something. At least I’ll have chosen. And maybe that matters more than surviving. I’ve lived here. Maybe that’s the whole point.”
She watches me like I’m something strange. Something rare.
“You would choose more trials? More suffering? And why?”
“Because I’m not done yet.” I press my palm to the flame-marked pendant. “Because I’m not alone anymore.”
She studies me a long moment—then stands.
“Then may your joy be armor. May your fire be truth. And may the final gate open only when you are ready.”
She bows. The flame surges—not to burn, but to bless. The portal disappears. The room fades. The arch looms. The trial ends.
And I’m still standing.