“You’re not—” I start, but the words stick.
“Daemari?” he finishes. “No.”
I glance instinctively at the fence, though I know no one’s there.
“That’s not possible. The Rite—”
“—is Crimson’s,” he says, cutting me off. “And only Daemari may claim the throne. Which means if they knew, truly knew, what I am I wouldn’t be in this ring, would I? I’d be in a pit.”
My throat goes dry. “Then why risk it?”
He studies me for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide whether I’m worth the next truth.
“I’m not here to win for me, Kay Ward. I’m here to win for people who don’t get to stand in this ring. People who are stepped on and burned out and erased because of what they are.”
“The Vesperan,” I whisper, the word tasting dangerous.
His expression shifts—a flicker of shock, then caution. “You know our name.”
“Yes,” I say. “Sarai and… Isaeth.”
At Isaeth’s name, his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away.
“Then you know enough to understand why this stays between us. If the court knew—if the Asmodeus knew—my name would be a curse, and anyone tied to me would burn for it.”
I almost say Caziel wouldn’t let that happen, but the words catch. Because Caziel’s not here. Because Caziel’s father is the one who’d light the match. It doesn’t matter that I know these two have history. This is not my story to tell.
“So, you hide,” I say instead.
“I survive,” he corrects. “Because my survival is the only way to do what I came here to do. But now…” He gestures between us, meaning my seeing him, “…you’re a risk I didn’t plan for.”
“Lucky me,” I mutter, because humor is the only thing keeping me from thinking about how easily this could be another trial, another trick to break me open.
Varo steps closer, and his voice drops even lower.
“Understand this, Kay. Knowing me like this puts you in more danger than any arena archway. And if the Asmodeus so much as suspects…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to, and for the first time, I realize just how sharp the knife edge is that everyone in Crimson seems to be walking—and how deep the cut would be if the court learned what I’ve just seen. I lean back against the edge of the ring, crossing my arms tighter.
“Tell me something,” I challenge, “what changed? Why show me this now if it’s so dangerous?”
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s weighing every word.
“Because you walked us all out of Gilded.”
“That’s not—” I start, but he talks over me.
“You could’ve left them,” he says, his voice sharp enough to cut. “You should have. It would’ve been easier, safer. But you didn’t. You dragged all of them through that arch, even the ones who’d have gladly seen you stuck there forever.”
“I didn’t get them all,” I say, thinking of Caelthar. I shift, uncomfortable under the weight of his stare. “Anyone would have done the same.”
“No,” he says flatly, stepping closer. “They wouldn’t.Mostwouldn’t. That’s the point. You had nothing to gain. You could’ve let them fend for themselves and no one would’ve faulted you—not in this place. But you didn’t. And I… noticed.” There’s something in his tone, not admiration exactly, but an acknowledgment, like he’s naming her part of a much smaller club than she realizes. “I have to win this Rite,” he continues. “Not for glory, not for the throne itself, but because it is time. There are people who will never even get the chance to stand in the arena. People who will be nothing more than ash under Crimson’s heel if nothing changes. That is what’s at stake for my people.”
I study him, really study him, seeing the tension wound tight in his frame, the way every part of him is built for fighting—not for himself, but for something bigger.
“And you think I understand that because I didn’t leave anyone behind.”
“I think,” he says slowly, “that you might be the only one here who would do it again, even for your enemy. And that makes you dangerous in ways the court doesn’t have a name for yet.”
Varo exhales, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to bleed out the last of his restraint. Then he steps in, close enough that the edge of his shadow swallows me.
