I stare at her for a moment longer. I have no idea what she’s just done to me. But I know I’ll never see her the same way again. She seems to mistake my silence for resistance and lifts her hands in surrender.
“And before you say anything—I know, okay? I’m not exactly prime contender material. I could barely lift the damn sword in the ring.” She gestures to herself with a wry snort. “The most fight training I’ve had islearning how to wrestle a rescue husky named Theodorable into a bathtub. Or give George his meds without losing a finger.”
“George,” I repeat, confused.
“My cat.”
Cat?
She shrugs.
“That was mostly oven mitts and divine intervention.”
And somehow that’s what breaks the rest of me open. Not the fire. Not the fear. The oven mitts. I find myself nodding. Slow. Measured.
“Yes,” I say.
She blinks. “Yes?”
“I will train you.” A pause “You won’t go into this alone.”
She breathes out. A half laugh, half a sob she doesn’t let free. I step back toward the door, letting the promise settle between us.
“Rest,” I tell her. “Tomorrow we begin.”
She nods once. Then adds, more to herself than me, “I’m good at surviving.”
I believe her, but I also know now she doesn’t have to do it alone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
KAY
Iwake up stiff. It’s not surprising, given my activities from the day before. I practically fell into my lush bed when I made it back to my room. I’m not even sure I remember getting dressed. But this is more than I expected. Maybe it’s all of it catching up to me. I’ve been here since…
Wait.
Yesterday I made the blonde bleed in the training rings. That was fun. The day before that…. The day before… thirteen chairs and robed figures. Fire. No. That was two different days. With some time in between them. The thoughts slide off my brain like drops of rain down a slick, smooth surface. Am I losing my mind? Was it all a dream? Lava fields and dirt and charred air. Except no. I’m still stiff. Like can’t-lift-my-arms, consider-chewing-my-own-shoulder-off stiff.
I was at a conference. Something happened. The elevator. I try to ground myself in reality. It should be easy. Everything hurts. Even my eyelashes. Even my regrets. For a moment, I lie completely still in the strange bed and let the burn settle into my bones. The soreness is almost satisfying, though. A reminder that I did something. Stupid, maybe. But real. This is real. This place. I am most likely going to be forced to compete in some stupid flame rite for some stupid fantasy realm and I’ll probably die without my cat even noticing I was gone. But not today.
I didn’t die yesterday.
I’m still alive today.
That’s a start.
The room is quiet. No knock at the door. No flaming scrolls. No servants materializing with cryptic robes or tea that tastes like hot metal. Just me. In borrowed clothes in a borrowed bed in a borrowed realm. I sit up slowly, every muscle protesting.
“Ow,” I mutter. “Okay. Cool. Yes. Love this for me.”
If George were here, he’d be watching me with his usual judgmental glare, wondering why I’m making so much noise without opening a can of pâté.
God, I hope he’s okay.
I drag myself toward the armoire and open it. Inside, there are clothes again. More than yesterday. Someone’s been stocking me like a video game avatar. Leathers, linen, wraps, buckles. Things that suggest either “sexy apocalypse” or “training montage with bonus bruises.” I sigh and pick the most flexible-looking outfit. It’s black. Of course it’s black. Every color in Crimson looks like it’s been dipped in ash, charred, or dipped in blood.
Getting dressed is a process. Half because I’m sore. Half because I want to look like I belong, but have no idea where to start. Not glamorous. Not intimidating. Just… capable. I don’t want them to assume I’m going to fail before I even have a chance. A real one.
