Chapter 5
Syneca
The burden of our kind is this: we carry the responsibility of continuation without the comfort of return. When you burn, you will not rise. Another will. And they will be magnificent and new and nothing like you.
“Isaid we had to come, I didn’t say we had to dress the part. I look ridiculous,” Calder muttered, tugging at his purple and black scarf.
“You look festive,” Vitoria corrected, grinning as she adjusted the matching ribbons in her dark hair. “Like you actually give a damn about something other than murder.”
I snorted, nearly spilling the wine I’d bought from a passing vendor as we searched for our seats. “That’s asking a lot. This is the man who considers cooking to be fun.”
“I like food,” he said, but his mouth twitched toward a smile. “And purple doesn’t suit me.”
“Purple suits everyone.” Vitoria bounced on her toes, scanning for our seats among the crowd inside the Nexus arena. “It’s the color of mystery. Of passion.”
“It’s the color of bruises,” Calder said.
“Romantic bruises,” I added, which made Vitoria snort.
The arena circled us like a coliseum built from white stone, its curved walls climbing skyward in tiered rings that could hold thousands.
The field below was grass, impossibly green, trimmed short and even, the kind that cushioned falls from the floating platforms above.
Those platforms drifted at varying heights across the arena, some barely off the ground, others suspended twenty feet up, each one wide enough for two players to stand.
They rotated slowly, bobbing like boats on gentle water, their positions never quite the same twice.
Between them, Light Veils danced and spiraled, ribbons of gold and silver that moved like silk scarves caught in an invisible breeze, weaving figure eights through the air, their edges sharp enough to cut if you weren’t careful.
The crowd roared from the stands, their voices echoing, banners in team colors snapping in the wind.
“Section twelve, row thirty,” Vitoria read from our tickets.
Even though my presence was mandatory, I still had to buy my own ticket. After checking in with Matthias, and watching him make a larger-than-necessary checkmark beside my name, I rejoined Calder and Vitoria.
“Perfect view of the carnage,” I mumbled.
We climbed the stone steps, weaving between families decked out in team colors.
Purple and black everywhere on this side.
Howling Banshees fever had infected a quarter of the city.
Everyone else wore blue and silver for the Silverbolts, though their cheers were more subdued tonight. Word traveled fast in the city.
Hard to get excited about a team missing their star player.
A sprite darted past my head, trailing silver dust in his wake. His voice squeaked something that sounded like odds and betting pools before he zipped toward a cluster of gamblers three rows up.
“Five crowns says the Banshees take it in six,” Vitoria called to him, though her focus lay beyond the gambler, eyes fixed on the docks in the far distance.
The sprite doubled back, hovering in front of her nose until her gaze shifted back to him.
His wings beat so fast they were just a blur.
“Understood. But Miss, current odds favor the Silverbolt Serpents. Even without Varrow, they’ve got Kaine Mills. ”
“Mills is good,” I said, settling into my seat. “But he’s not Draven Varrow good.”
“Nobody’s Draven Varrow good,” the sprite whispered mournfully. “Was going to break the single-match veil record tonight. Had it on good authority.” He zipped away, muttering about ruined betting schemes.
Below us, the arena filled with players taking their positions, scowls on most of their faces.
The Silverbolts moved with professional precision, blue and silver uniforms as crisp as military dress, accommodating as many runes as allowed per the rulebook.
The Banshees looked wilder, their purple uniforms flowing like storm clouds, their movements loose and predatory.
“There’s Ingrid Shadowmere,” Vitoria pointed to a Banshees player whose form seemed to flicker at the edges. “Shifter. Watch how she moves.”
I watched. Ingrid didn’t just run, she flowed, her body phasing between solid and something more ethereal. When she reached for a practice veil, her hand passed halfway through it before solidifying, guiding the ribbon of light with impossible grace.
“Show-off,” Calder said, but his eyes tracked her movements with interest.
“Effective show-off,” I corrected. “Look how the veil responds to her.”
The Light Veil she now touched pulsed brighter, its golden color shifting toward amber. It followed her movement like a curious pet, drawn to something in her energy that the others couldn’t provide.
“I don’t understand,” a woman behind us shouted over the cheers.
“Furies, woman. How many times do I have to tell ya? They guide the veils with magic and runes to collect ’em. Different colors are different points. It’s easy enough.”
“There’s the witch!” the woman shouted.
“Elena Brightwater,” her companion corrected with reverence. “She’s the best veil-reader in the league.”
I turned slightly, catching sight of the player in question.
Elena moved with sharp precision across the platforms, her hands weaving subtle patterns that made the Light Veils dance toward her like moths to a flame.
Beautiful. Confident. Completely unafraid to use her magic in front of fifty thousand people.
“Brightwater’s a goddess,” someone else chimed in. “Pure magic. Pure talent. Serves us she’s not a fire witch.”
The woman who’d been confused agreed. “Oh, yes! I love her. So elegant.”
“But what if she was?” the boy beside her asked from over my shoulder. “A fire witch, I mean.”
Several people around us grew quieter as the boy’s father leaned in and whispered in his ear. The boy’s eyes grew wide as he whispered, “Phoenix,” and immediately covered his mouth with his hands.
No one wanted their entire life burned to ash.
The world didn’t want to start over, building from nothing.
.. again. They didn’t want to say goodbye to those who didn’t carry Life Runes.
So, they hunted the Phoenix instead. Kill the line, kill the cycle of Burnings that plagued this world.
Seemed logical enough, if it didn’t mean condemnation of all the witches.
My stomach clenched. I watched Elena guide a silver veil with a gesture so graceful it looked like art, and the crowd erupted in adoration. The same people who would spit on me in the street for being a witch were screaming themselves hoarse for her.
Because she was beautiful. Because she entertained them. Because she won games.
“Must be nice,” Vitoria murmured beside me, following my gaze.
“What?” Though I didn’t really need to ask.
“To use magic and have them love you for it instead of hunting you.” Her voice carried an ache I felt in my soul. “Look at her, Syn. She’s not hiding. She’s not afraid. She’s just... free.”
Elena scored, sending a golden veil spiraling through the Banshee portal with a casual flick of her wrist. The crowd went wild, chanting her name as if she were divine. As if she were a Fury performing for them.
“brIGHT-WA-TER! brIGHT-WA-TER!”
My chest felt hollow. Watching Elena was like staring through a window at a life I’d never have. She wore her witch nature like a crown while I buried mine like a shameful secret. She was celebrated. I was tolerated at best.
“Different rules for stars,” Calder said quietly, reading the longing on our faces. “Always has been.”
Around us, the crowd’s energy built like storm pressure. Chants started in scattered pockets, then spread through the stands like wildfire.
“Banshees! Banshees! Let them howl!”
The other side countered. “Serpent strike! Serpent strike! Venom and might!”
A horn sounded, deep and resonant. The players took their positions on the floating platforms, strategically placed.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” The announcer’s voice boomed. No question, he was using a rune for that kind of projection. “Welcome to the opening night at the Grimora Championship Arena!”
The crowd erupted. I found myself on my feet with everyone else, caught up in the infectious energy. Beside me, even Calder was clapping.
“Tonight, we bear witness to the clash of titans! The reigning champions, your beloved Howling Banshees!”
Purple light exploded across the arena. The Banshees players raised their arms, and the crowd’s roar shook the stands.
“Facing the fierce challenge of the Silverbolt Serpents!”
Blue light answered purple. The cheers were loud but strained, carrying the weight of loss and expectation.
“Before we begin,” the announcer’s voice dropped, becoming solemn, “we pause to remember a champion taken from us too soon. Draven Varrow. Player. Hero. Brother. Son of Noreya.”
The arena lights dimmed. A massive image appeared in the air above the field, Draven in his prime, mid-leap, one hand extended toward a crimson veil, his face fierce with concentration and joy.
The silence was gut-wrenching.
Then, from the highest platform in the arena, a figure appeared.
Magistrate Tiberius Veyne stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his silver hair catching what little light remained. Even at this distance, his presence commanded every eye.
“Draven Varrow represented the finest of our world,” his voice carried without amplification, somehow reaching every corner of the stadium. “Dedication. Excellence. The pursuit of greatness that defines us all. His loss diminishes us. But his memory... his memory makes us stronger.”
The crowd murmured agreement, but underneath I heard something else. Whispers. Questions. The kind of restless energy that comes when people know they’re not getting the whole truth.