“She won’t enter the Rite.”
“Are you sure?”
His voice doesn’t challenge. It wounds.
“No,” I admit. “I’m not.”
Solonar nods slowly, like he respects the honesty. Like we’re on the same side.
“She came through the Wastes untouched,” he says. “Lived where flame dies. That alone makes her unusual. But she wasn’t just dropped at our gates, Caziel. Something brought her here. Something kept her alive. That deserves consideration.”
I glance past him toward the darker edge of the corridor. The flame in the wall sconces shifts subtly with my breath.
“If she’s marked,” I say, “it hasn’t shown.”
“Not yet.”
“Or it isn’t there.”
“Are you willing to stake her life on that?”
The question lodges beneath my ribs.
“I’m not willing to stake it at all.”
Solonar nods.
And then, carefully, almost gently, he says, “Then don’t let her stand alone.”
My gaze sharpens. “You’re suggesting she won’t be given a choice. That I should enter.”
“I may be wrong, but if I’m not…she’ll die if you don’t.”
I go still, holding my eyes, steady and unreadable. Not pushing. Just waiting.
I pull air into my lungs.
“If she steps into the arena—if this realm demands her blood—I will not let them take it alone.”
Solonar smiles. Not gloating. Not victorious. Satisfied.
“As I said,” he murmurs, “you’ve never been good at not caring.” And then he turns and walks away, flame catching along the hem of his robe in a curl of gold.
I stay behind and tell myself I have not agreed even as the fire under my skin begins to stir. Solonar’s words cling to me like smoke.
Then don’t let her stand alone.
He said it like an ally. Like a brother-in-arms. Like he was offering me a way forward. But I’ve known Elder Solonar my whole life. He never offers. He only guides. Quiet hands on the edge of the scale, never seen. Never blamed. And I—idiot that I am—still want to believe we stand on the same side. The side of Crimson. Whatever that means anymore.
And still I can feel the doubt unraveling under my skin. What does he want me to do? What outcome does he hope for? Would he have me compete? Would he see me rise, just to prove that I still can? Would he call that mercy? I don’t know. And that—not Solonar’s smile, not the council’s talk of fire and tests—that’s what unsettles me.
I used to be certain. Now, all I have is flame. I guess I’ll go demand answers from the fire.
The old chamber is tucked behind the southern spire—unmarked, unwatched. A reliquary, they called it once. A place for reflection. For communion. It is neither public, nor is it forbidden. It’s forgotten. My mother brought me here only once, when I was young. She whispered stories into the stone walls about how the flame wasn’t just power—it was want, sharpened into something sacred.
“Flame for destruction is easy. Flame for creation? That’s devotion.”
Back then, I didn’t understand. Now, I’m desperate to.
