Chapter 5 #2
“The investigation into his death continues,” Tiberius said, and his eyes seemed to find every face in the crowd before landing on a shifter frozen in the first row of the stands with a face that was a twin to her brother’s.
Lucette Varrow had been another notable player of the games.
But several years ago, in the middle of a game, she quit and never played again.
“Justice will be swift. Justice will be absolute. Those responsible will face the full weight of our law.”
Beside me, Vitoria had gone very still.
“Tonight, we play in Draven’s honor. We celebrate his life. And we show the world that Grimora, alongside the rest of our country of Vestra, stands united against those who would harm our champions.”
The lights blazed back to life. The crowd cheered, but it felt forced now, obligatory.
And that’s when I saw him.
Golden brown hair and a build that outsized Calder. The Ripper moved through the crowd like smoke, his dark coat flowing behind him as he climbed the steps. He paused at the end of our row, his ice-gray eyes scanning the faces around us.
My heart stopped.
In another life, he might have been the kind of man who turned heads for all the right reasons, strong jaw, broad shoulders, a face that belonged on posters. But knowing what those hands had done, what that mouth had whispered before ending lives, turned any appeal to something sick and twisted.
“Excuse me,” he said to the family blocking his path. They scrambled aside, recognizing him, fear stretched across their faces.
He moved closer. Row thirty. Row twenty-nine.
“Vitoria,” I whispered.
“I see him.”
Row twenty-eight.
His eyes swept over me. Past me. Back to me.
And stopped.
Not recognition. Not yet. But something. A stirring of memory. A hunter’s instinct that said this face, this scent, this presence—it meant something.
He took the seat directly behind us.
I could feel his breath on my neck. Could smell leather and steel and something darker. The crowd’s chants became noise. The game began, but I couldn’t focus on anything except the weight of his attention, the certainty that he was studying me.
“Veils are active!” the announcer called. “Three golden ribbons in play!”
On the arena floor, chaos erupted. Players launched themselves between platforms, reaching for streams of light that danced just out of grasp. Ingrid Shadowmere phased through a platform, her hand closing around a golden veil, but a Serpent intercepted, disrupting her grip.
The crowd roared. Someone behind us—not the Ripper, thank the Furies—shouted something about dirty tactics.
“Banshees take first blood!”
One of their players had guided a veil through the Silverbolt portal, scoring the game’s first point. Purple light erupted across the arena.
I tried to focus on the game. Tried to lose myself in the spectacle. But every time I moved, every time I cheered, I felt dangerous eyes cataloging my reactions.
“Second veil secured by Kaine Mills!”
The Silverbolt star moved with liquid grace, his enhanced hunter reflexes allowing him to intercept a silver veil mid-flight. He spun, redirected its momentum, and sent it sailing toward the purple portal.
The score was tied at one.
“He’s good,” Vitoria said, but her voice was tight.
“Not good enough,” I replied, louder than necessary. Playing my part. Just another fan in the stands.
But my shoulders ached from holding them straight. My jaw hurt from clenching it. And still, that presence loomed behind me like a storm cloud ready to break.
The third veil was brighter than the others, moving with vicious unpredictability. It shot between platforms like a living thing, evading every attempt to capture it.
“Brighter veils are worth double points,” Calder murmured.
“I know the rules,” I snapped, then immediately felt guilty. It wasn’t his fault I was wound tighter than a desperate final spell.
Ingrid Shadowmere made another run at the veil. She changed shape into a beautiful, giant panther, reached with her maw—
And missed as a Serpent player slammed into the platform beside her, the impact sending vibrations through the arena.
The veil spiraled away, frustrated, seeking a new target.
Vitoria scooted closer to me. “Banshees need to control the middle platforms. They’re giving up too much space.”
Behind us, the Ripper shifted in his seat. I heard the creak of leather, felt the subtle change in air pressure as he leaned forward.
“Interesting analysis,” he said, his voice pitched just loud enough for us to hear. “You sound like you know the game well.”
Vitoria turned, flashing him her brightest, elongated-fang smile. “My father played semi-professionally. I grew up in arenas like this.”
Lies flowed so easily from her. Smooth. Natural. Beautiful.
The Ripper’s eyes moved to her face, studying her with the same intensity he’d focused on me. “And you?” he asked, his gaze sliding to mine. “Also a legacy player?”
My throat felt like sandpaper. “Just a fan. I work for the Chancellery. Don’t get out much.”
“The Chancellery.” His voice held no inflection at all. “What department?”
Think, Syneca. Think fast.
But I couldn’t lie. We both knew he already had the answer.
“Binding Documentation. Mostly tax forms. Nothing exciting.”
“Tax forms.” He leaned back slightly. “I know someone in that department. Matthias Greying. Efficient man.”
“Very efficient,” I agreed, pointedly keeping the bite from my tone.
“Indeed.” The Ripper’s attention shifted back to the arena, but I could feel him listening to every word we spoke, noting every inflection.
The game continued, but the joy had bled out of it. What should have been celebration felt like interrogation. Every cheer felt forced. Every reaction felt watched.
By halftime, the Banshees led six to four, but I barely cared.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer called as the players retreated to rest. “At this time, we invite you to observe a moment of silence for our fallen champion.”
The arena lights dimmed again. Draven’s image reappeared, larger this time, his smile frozen in eternal youth.
I bowed my head with the rest of the crowd, but my mind raced. The Ripper sat directly behind me, close enough to reach out and grab me if he wanted. Close enough to whisper accusations. Close enough to end this charade with six inches of steel. And the culprits he hunted sat right in front of him.
The silence stretched.
And stretched.
And then, impossibly, I felt something warm against my ankle.
Silas.
My familiar had made his way into the arena, creeping through the shadows to make it to me.
His small form pressed against my leg, offering what comfort he could while maintaining his concealment.
That or reassurance he’d change in an instant and tear into the Ripper, should it be warranted.
Silas was typically far too grumpy for soothing, but I appreciated the sentiment.
The lights returned. The second half began.
What had started as celebration now felt like endurance. Like surviving. The Banshees extended their lead as the Silverbolts fought back desperately.
“Match point,” Vitoria said as a golden veil spawned near the center platform.
Both teams converged. Bodies flew. Magic crackled. The veil danced between a dozen reaching hands, refusing to commit to any single player.
Then Elena Brightwater cast a spell of bright light—a spell which probably helped witches grow plants—and for one impossible moment, woman and light merged, flowing as one entity toward the portal.
The crowd held its breath.
The veil passed through.
“Howling Banshees win! Ten to nine! Your champions hold their title with an iron grip!”
Purple light exploded across the arena one final time. The crowd erupted in celebration, people jumping, hugging, screaming their joy into the night.
I tried to join in, but when I turned to smile at Vitoria, I caught sight of the Ripper’s beautifully brutal face.
He wasn’t watching the celebration.
He was watching me.
“We should go,” Calder said suddenly, his voice cutting through the noise. “It’ll take forever to get out if we wait.”
“Good idea,” I said far too quickly.
Vitoria looked between us, reading the tension like a book. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”
We gathered our things, trying to appear casual, unhurried. Just three friends heading home after a good game.
But as we filed toward the aisle, I felt the Ripper’s eyes tracking our every move. He was supposed to hunt monsters that lived in the Ash, the space between cities that could never heal after a Burning. But instead, he tracked a different monster.
The truth sat in my chest like a blade, sharp and cold and perfectly hidden. Twenty-seven years I’d carried it. Twenty-seven years of inverse runes and careful lies and blood magic that bound me to shadows.
The Phoenix line wasn’t dead.
She was leaving the arena, following Calder’s broad shoulders through the crowd, pretending to care about Nexus scores with a nymph at her back.
The mark had been there when I was born.
A crescent moon of flame along my left shoulder blade, no bigger than a child’s palm.
Beautiful, my parents had called it. A blessing.
They’d died for that blessing.
Gran found us the night the hunters came. She’d felt it somehow, the way the old magic always recognized its own. One look at my back, and her face had crumbled.
“They’ll kill her,” she’d whispered to my mother as I pretended to sleep. But love makes people do impossible things.
I was seven when she laid me face-down on her kitchen table, my parents’ blood still wet on the floor around us. The blade had been so sharp I’d barely felt it at first. Just pressure. Then pain that turned the world white as she carved the mark from my skin with surgical precision.
The scar remained. A pale crescent that told the story of what I’d been born to be.
What I still was, mark or no mark. The Phoenix, born with tragedy in my blood and destined to burn this world to ash.