Her.
I close my eyes and force the flame down. Not the magic. The rage.
I speak carefully. “She is not marked. If she were, I would know.”
“You think you would,” Solonar says, finally speaking. “But we have seen how the flame behaves when she enters a room.”
“She is not Daemari,” I say. “If the flame chose her, it would have to change its nature entirely.”
“Perhaps it already has,” my father murmurs. “Perhaps it’s grown soft, like you.”
My vision narrows, but I keep my mouth shut. I will not give him the satisfaction. Not yet.
“The next trial is imminent,” Solonar says, redirecting.
It’s either a deliberate save or a deflection. I can’t tell anymore and I should be more alarmed by that change. My father waves a hand like this is trivial.
“Yes, yes. The flame will rise. The contenders will be tested.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “All of them.”
My blood turns to frost. We still only have twelve marked. They can’t possibly mean— “She is not—”
“She will stand in the ring,” he says, “same as the others.”
“She is not in the rite.”
“No?” he sneers. “Then she has nothing to fear, has she not?”
It’s a trap. I see the outline clearly now. They’ll put her on display to humiliate her. Let her fail, let the people turn on her. Brand her as unworthy and remove her through public shame, not decree. It’s cleaner that way. It doesn’t stain the rite. It just stains her. I press my lips together. The only thing worse than death in Crimson is dishonor. They know that. They’re counting on it.
“She will not be warned,” my father says suddenly, his voice sharper now.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I did,” I say tightly. “I just assumed you weren’t stupid enough to issue a binding—”
He lifts his hand and speaks a word in the old tongue. My throat goes tight. A pulse strikes behind my eyes. Magic coils around my ribs like iron wire, humming with heat and silence. I cannot speak of the trial. Not to her. Not now.Not at all. I glare at my father, pressing my hands together until my nails leave bloody crescents in the skin of my palm.
“She will stand where the flame calls her,” my father says, voice calm again. “And you will watch.”
“You will obey,” Solonar adds, quiet but absolute.
I want to kill them both. Instead, I nod once, then turn and walk from the room. Each step is a scream held behind my teeth. She is not marked. They cannot force her to compete. They will humiliate her. Shame her. But she will walk away.
It’s more mercy than I could have begged my father to give. That alone gives me pause. I don’t trust him. I shouldn’t, but is there anything he can do? My father is ruthless intelligence and cold cunning. There is no price to steep for him to maintain control over the realm and it’s people. And now he has no choice. The Flame has called forth others, and he must step down. No amount of posturing, of underhandedpoliticking will save his reign. The Flame decides for Crimson as it always has. Anything else would be treason.
The flame does not call for nothing.
And she is no longer invisible.
I hear his steps before Solonar speaks. Light tread. Perfectly timed. Like he wants me to know he’s coming.
I don’t slow. The hall is long and dim and silent. The kind of space that encourages secrets.
“I didn’t expect you to follow orders so easily,” Solonar says behind me.
I stop. I don’t turn.
