“Kay,” he says quietly. I turn my head, just enough to look at him. The sun casts light across his jaw, but his eyes are shadowed. Watching me carefully. “You did it.”
My voice is brittle. “I think I broke something.”
“You are still whole.”
I think he means physically. Yes, physically I’m fine. Emotionally…
“It feels like I did.”
He doesn’t rush to comfort. Just watches. Listens.
“Where is everyone else?” I ask.
“They haven’t made it out yet, but they still have time.”
“I thought if I just went for it, I wouldn’t have time to be afraid.”
“And were you?”
I shake my head slowly. “Not afraid. Not that—” My throat closes. I shake my head, willing the words to come. “I almost—” Caz doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. “I’m not sure I came out the same.”
“You didn’t,” he says gently. “You shouldn’t, but that does not mean you are wrong.”
I nod like I understand. I don’t.
The stone beneath my boots feels too far away. Like I’m standing on a ledge above myself, watching this broken version of me tremble in full view of a thousand strangers. I keep my eyes on the horizon. I won’t give them tears. Not here. But gods, I’m tired. It’s not just my body. It’s the weight of what I carried back. The heaviness of memory still clinging to my bones. The tenderness in the space where my mother’svoice still echoes. Like the whole ordeal pealed back the layers of loss so it could bleed anew.
“I thought the worst part would be pain,” I murmur. Caz doesn’t speak. I shake my head. “It wasn’t. It was comfort. Being wanted. It felt like a mercy. And I—” My voice cracks. “I almost took it.”
He doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t tell me I was strong or brave. He nods.
“That is how it wins.”
The silence settles around us again. The crowd hasn’t moved. I don’t think they know what to do. Maybe they’re waiting for someone to tell them how to react. Maybe they’re scared to look too closely. I try to take a step, to put some space between me and the arch, me and Caziel. My knees buckle.
He’s there before I fall. One arm around my waist, the other bracing my elbow. No urgency. Just quiet strength, holding me upright like it’s nothing.
“Easy,Sæl,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
I press my hand to his chest without thinking. His skin is warm through the fabric. Steady. Real. He doesn’t let me go down. He just turns with me, gently guiding us toward the edge of the arena. Away from the ring. Away from the eyes.
The crowd parts as we pass. But it’s not out of respect. Out of uncertainty. Out of fear.
I let him lead me to sit on a stone bench near the upper tiers of the amphitheater. I’m wrapped in a thick gray blanket that smells vaguely of citrus and smoke. George found me the moment I left the arena. He’s curled in my lap now, a dense, judgmental loaf of fur and attitude, purring so hard my thighs vibrate. I’m not sure who let him up here. Or who’s brave enough to say no to him.
The blanket helps. So does the weight of my cat. But I’m still shaking. Not visibly, maybe, not anymore, but there’s a tremor inside me that hasn’t stopped. The kind that grief leaves when it doesn’t have anywhere to go. The kind that hums in my ribs and makes me feel like even my bones are ashamed of what I survived.
Down below, another contender steps out of the flaming arch and the trial ring. Zyreus with the blades. The one who looks like he’s dancing in the ring. He doesn’t wobble. Doesn’t look like he cried. Hisrobes aren’t even wrinkled. Spine straight, he lifts his chin, sheathes his blade, and strides out of the arena like he’s walking out of a meditation retreat.
Great. Of course he looks fantastic.
I glance down at myself.Blanket. Cat. Haunted eyes. I look like a traumatized librarian.
George lifts his head and headbutts my wrist. I scratch behind his ear, and he rewards me by flopping over and exposing his belly, and immediately chomping onto my hand when I touch him
“Thanks,” I mutter. “Really grounding stuff.”
Another contender returns. Nyxen Vale this time and it’s the same picture. They’re calm. Graceful. Perfectly composed. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the trial was a very exclusive nap. I pull the blanket tighter and try to sit straighter, but the ache between my shoulders drags me down. Caziel stands a few paces away, leaning against a carved column like he’s not watching me. Like he just happened to stop here. Even though he hasn’t moved since he brought me to this bench. He hasn’t hovered. But he hasn’t gone. I catch him watching the arena, arms crossed, brow furrowed slightly—like he’s analyzing the pattern of the flame or studying something no one else sees.
