Chapter 6 #2
Too late. The memory of Katarina’s screams in the Bloodwood guaranteed that.
Calder immediately claimed the kitchen, pulling ingredients from places I never knew we had. The man cooked like he killed, with precision, efficiency, and an alarming number of sharp instruments.
“Are you making dinner or preparing for surgery?” Vitoria asked, watching him arrange knives by size.
“Both require proper tools,” he replied, popping a piece of bread into his mouth while he worked. “And proper technique.”
“Proper technique doesn’t usually involve eating half the ingredients before they make it to the pot.”
“Quality control.” Another piece of bread disappeared. “Very important.”
I snorted, settling into my chair with a cup of tea. Silas, house cat-size once again, materialized on the windowsill with a soft thump, his eyes immediately assessing the food situation. His expression clearly conveyed his opinion of Calder’s cooking methods.
“Don’t give me that look,” Calder told him. “Furies know what you eat out there... rats?”
Silas ruffled his feathers with dignity and turned his back to us all.
“So dramatic,” Vitoria laughed, moving to the cabinet where we kept the wine.
“If we’re going to pretend everything’s fine, we might as well do it properly.
” She pulled out a bottle that had been gathering dust since her last birthday.
“Besides, Eda Mire’s warnings always sound worse when you’re sober. ”
“That’s probably the point,” I said, but I didn’t protest when she poured generous glasses for all of us.
The wine helped. So did Calder’s cooking. Which, despite his questionable preparation methods, tasted delicious. As always, Calder never missed with food.
He was the last charidryn, though most people called his kind Rune Eaters, a nickname that had stuck throughout history despite being fundamentally wrong.
He didn’t eat runes. He consumed them differently, with steel instead of teeth, a distinction lost on everyone who whispered the name like a curse.
Not that Calder cared what the world thought.
They’d given him a different title, anyway.
The Heartless One. Earned through methodical, relentless vengeance.
He'd hunted down every single person responsible for murdering his family, and he’d made sure none of them lived to regret it.
Few knew the truth of how he actually used runes.
Fewer still knew the truth of what drove him now, in this present life where his family’s blood had long since dried and vengeance had left him hollow.
We fell into easy conversation, the kind of mindless chatter that came from years of shared meals and secrets. Well, most shared secrets, anyway.
But as the evening wore on, I noticed Vitoria kept drifting to the window. Not obviously. Just a glance here and there, like she was checking on something. Or for someone.
“Expecting a visit?” I asked finally.
She startled slightly, then laughed it off. “It’s nothing.”
“Vitoria.”
“Really, Syneca. It’s nothing. Promise.” She settled back on the couch, curling her legs under her. “Can we just pretend we’re normal people having a normal night?”
Calder lifted a brow. “As opposed to...”
“Two witches, a grumpy griffin and a moody Rune Eater—”
“Careful,” he said, eyes narrowing on her.
“Fine. A charidryn. But Rune Eater sounds better. More brutal, less... like a chariot.”
Calder’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Better a chariot than a broomstick, witch.”
“Hey,” she said, tossing a pillow at him. “I tried it one time when I was a kid. And I told you that in confidence.”
I laughed. “Confidence? You whisper-shouted it after three glasses of wine. Hardly sacred.”
“Traitor,” she scowled.
“Real friends weaponize secrets,” I said sweetly, taking another sip.
Calder drummed his fingers against the armrest, the sound sharp in the quiet. “Seems witches are only loyal until the wine wears off.”
“Better than sulking in a corner like some tragic knight,” I quipped.
His gaze cut to me. “Careful. Knights bite back.”
“Good,” I said, leaning forward. “So do I.”
Vitoria smiled at me. “I fucking love it when you’re wicked.”
“The rest of the world gets the obedient little Rune Weaver who whispers her spells and keeps her head down,” Calder said, his rare smile peeking through. “We get Syneca Black, untamed.”
“Lucky you,” I said, raising my glass in mock salute.
Vitoria clinked hers against mine. “To being untamed.”
“Within our own four walls, at least,” Calder added.
“The only walls that matter,” I said, and, for a moment, the weight of the day felt distant. This was home. This was safe.
Whatever vigil Vitoria had taken over the window had long passed.
She was just worried, like the rest of us.
But the wine had settled her nerves, I was sure.
It made me sleepy, and the familiar weight of Silas settling against my side didn’t help.
My book grew heavy in my hands as I read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word.
Beside me, Vitoria was practicing her transformation magic.
I could feel the subtle shift in the air as she worked, the way her features flickered and changed.
She’d mastered the full nymph transformation years ago, but lately she’d been attempting something more delicate, adjusting individual features, reshaping the line of her nose, the curve of her cheekbones.
“Imagoris variantis,” she murmured under her breath, her face rippling like water before snapping back to normal. “Come on...”
“You’re forcing it,” I said sleepily. “Magic flows better when you’re not fighting it.”
No one knew more about fighting against one’s power than I did.
It was the real reason I needed more rest. The reason why Eda Mire couldn’t understand the drain on my power.
Like everyone else, she had no idea I was bound to a griffin with a water affinity, not to enhance my natural abilities, but to mask them.
As Vitoria continued trying, I let my eyes drift closed, listening to the soft sounds of her practice and Calder moving around the kitchen. Safe sounds. Home sounds.
I must have dozed because the next thing I knew, screaming ripped through the night.
I jerked upright, the book tumbling to the floor. Beside me, the couch was empty. Cold.
“Vitoria?” I called, still groggy from sleep and wine.
No answer.
I threw the quilted blanket someone had draped over me off and darted for her room.
Nothing.
Calder bolted from his room, blade already in his hand. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know. She was right here—”
“No one opened the door last night,” he said, checking the runes that sat upon the frame. “Not even her.”
I whipped around to the window she’d become obsessed with. More screams came from outside. Then a sound I’d never heard before, the high, desperate crying of sprites in distress, coming from every direction at once.
We rushed to the window. Through the glass, I could see them. Dozens of sprites frozen in mid-flight, their tiny bodies rigid with terror, their voices raised in perfect, horrible unison:
“Get to Blackbriar’s Square! Get to Blackbriar’s Square!”
Over and over, like a broken music box.
“Vitoria!” I called again, searching the apartment frantically. Her boots were by the door. Her cloak hung on its hook. Only she and her twin daggers were missing.
She was just gone. No trace. No sign of a struggle. Like she’d simply vanished into the night air.
Calder grabbed his coat, already moving toward the door. “We have to get to Blackbriar’s Square. Now. Grab your coat, Syneca. Focus.”
But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the sound of wings. Not sprite wings. Not bird wings.
Dragon wings.
Big enough to blot out the stars.