Chapter 10 Syneca
Syneca
The deepest magic requires the deepest sacrifice. The deepest sacrifice is often the blood of one’s own kind.
“The Mortalis will commence at dawn,” Tiberius announced.
He spread his arms wide, as if embracing the violence to come.
“Three glorious days. Three sacred trials. Let us not forget what we owe to our divine protectors. The Sister Furies brought magic to this world, protecting us from the demons who chased them in the Underworld. They blessed us with power, with purpose, with the gifts that separate us from the beasts.” He clasped his hands before him, the picture of piety.
“They safeguarded our ancestors. Built the barriers that keep the Underworld sealed away. Gave everything so that we might thrive in safety. And now, when one of their blessed lines is threatened, we must prove ourselves worthy of their sacrifice. We must show that we deserve the magic they bestowed upon us. The Mortalis is our gift to them. Our offering. Five Venatori, forged in blood and trial.”
Beautiful words. Noble sentiment. Complete bullshit.
If Vitoria was truly the Phoenix destined to burn the world, why give her three days to disappear? Three days to gather power, to strike first, to fulfill whatever apocalyptic destiny they claimed she carried?
I’d give her whatever she needed. I’d delay them as much as I could. But clearly we weren’t using our brains here. Unless there was more to this hunt than the ugly picture they’d painted.
There must have been. This wasn’t protection. This was systematic elimination disguised as honor.
“You will be housed within the Nexus grounds tonight.” Tiberius’s eyes moved across us, lingering on the witches. On me. “Guards will ensure your safety.”
Someone laughed. I paused, worried it was my own hysteria. Fortunately, it wasn’t.
“Hunters, you’ll take the north tower. Shifters, the east. Sprites...” He paused, looking at the three tiny volunteers like a man considering which flowers to crush first. “The glasshouse. And witches... The undertunnels.”
Of course. Where else would you put the creatures you barely considered people? I hadn’t missed the way he never mentioned where Calder would sleep. As if he couldn’t care less.
Guards surrounded us, separating us by race like livestock being sorted for slaughter.
Calder hadn’t looked at me again since I’d taken the platform.
Now, as they gestured for him to step aside, he finally turned.
Those dark eyes fell on me, but I didn’t crumble.
I straightened my shoulders and stared right back.
He dipped his chin once before walking off.
Because I’d made my decision, and what was done was done.
“Move,” a guard said to me. Not roughly. Just empty. Like I was cargo to be transported. Like I was already dead.
They brought us down through a door I’d never noticed, hidden behind a curtain of ivy. The undertunnels ran beneath the Nexus arena, a maze of stone corridors that smelled of damp earth. Centuries of terror had soaked into these walls, and the steps were worn smooth by countless feet.
How many witches had walked this path? How many had walked back up?
Why were the undertunnels even necessary in an arena built for fun, unless it’d been built for something else long before that?
There were five hundred years of history and violence in this arena.
Five hundred years of secrets and escapes.
Water dripped somewhere in the darkness. Each drop counted off seconds like a funeral bell.
The guard stopped at a metal door. “You get your own cell. The other two share.”
Cell. Not room.
He unlocked it, and I stepped inside. Stone walls wept moisture that gathered in dark stains.
The floor was cold enough to leech warmth through my boots.
The provisions were almost nonexistent. A cot with a blanket so thin it was more suggestion than comfort.
A bucket in the corner that reeked of piss and despair.
A single candle on a shelf, already burning, wax pooling like tears.
“Someone will bring food,” the guard said, “probably.”
The door shut. The lock turned.
And I was suddenly alone with what I’d done.
I sat on the cot, and the weight of it crashed down like a collapsing building. Twenty-seven years of hiding, shattered in a single moment of desperate foolishness. Tomorrow, I’d face two other witches in some trial designed to leave only one of us standing.
Katarina, who already hated me. And some girl whose name I didn’t even know. One of us would survive.
Two would not.
By taking a single step forward, I’d decided Vitoria’s life was more precious than theirs. She was more important. They were nothing more than unfortunate losses on the road to my best friend’s salvation.
Somewhere above, thousands of people were probably placing bets. Which volunteer would last longest? Which would die first? Who would beg?
But also somewhere up there, I knew Silas circled the arena. His fury had cooled to something infinitely worse. Disappointment.
I pressed through the bond, though I never knew if he could actually understand me. He came when I beckoned, left when I dismissed him. Nothing more than that.
His response was silence. Not the comfortable quiet we sometimes shared. The kind that said I’d broken something fundamental between us. And my heart ached over that. I’d betrayed him.
Time crawled. Each minute stretched into eternity. The candle burned lower, casting weaker light, and still the weight in my chest grew heavier. What had I done? What had I actually, truly done?
Then footsteps in the corridor. Heavy. Deliberate. Multiple sets.
The lock turned.
Calder entered first, and relief flooded through me until I saw who followed. Three hunters. Two I didn’t recognize, both sharp and eager, the kind who volunteered for extra shifts. The third made my stomach drop.
Wickett filled the doorway. Those gray eyes noting everything with predatory focus. The cell. The cot. The candle. Me. When his gaze finally settled on my face, something electric passed between us. Hatred. Challenge. Something that made my pulse stutter.
“You have five minutes,” Calder said to them. Not asking. Telling. “Then you leave.”
The tallest hunter stepped forward. Older than Wickett, younger than Tiberius. He looked between Calder and me, calculating odds I didn’t want to think about.
“The Heartless One plays protector now?”
“I protect what’s mine.” Calder’s voice was flat. Dangerous. “Five minutes.”
The youngest hunter pulled something from his pocket. Small. Metallic. When he opened his palm, I saw a coin. Silver, with runes carved into both sides that seemed to writhe in the candlelight.
“Do you know what this is, witch?”
I shook my head.
“It’s a death marker. We give them to witnesses. So they remember what happens when witches forget their place.” He set it on the shelf beside the candle with deliberate ceremony. “Tomorrow, you’ll face your own kind. But eventually, if you survive, you’ll hunt the Phoenix.”
The casual certainty of it made bile rise in my throat.
“And if you refuse,” he continued, “when you try to save your kind instead of killing her, we’ll kill you both. Together. Call it mercy.”
From the doorway, Wickett shifted. Just barely. But the movement was fluid, purposeful, and the other hunter straightened immediately. Like a predator recognizing something more dangerous than itself.
“Time’s up,” Calder said. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t reached for his blade, but violence radiated from him like heat from flame.
“We could make it quick,” the hunter said, backing toward the door. “Tonight. While she sleeps. Save everyone the trouble of tomorrow.”
“Try it.” Calder’s smile was all teeth. “Please.”
They left. All except Wickett, who lingered in the doorway. His stare burned into me, eyes holding mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle. Not the look of a hunter studying prey. Something else. Something that recognized what I was willing to sacrifice and found it... interesting.
When he finally turned to go, his voice still cut through the night. “Brave little witch.”
The way he said it, like a caress and a threat wrapped together, woke something within me. And I needed nothing to wake up at the present moment.
But then he was gone too, and it was just Calder and me and the crushing weight of everything left unsaid.
He blinked slowly. “You absolute fucking fool.”
“I know.”
“You’ve killed yourself.”
“I know.”
“And for what? She’s not even the ...” He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. “Tomorrow, you’ll have to kill or be killed. Those other witches won’t hesitate.”
“Katarina will.”
“Katarina hates you now. She thinks you abandoned her in the Bloodwood. She’s not your friend.”
Silence lingered far too long before Calder moved to the door, positioning himself against the frame.
“What are you doing?”
“Keeping watch.” He pulled out a blade and began cleaning it with mechanical precision. Each stroke deliberate. Familiar. “No one touches you tonight.”
“Calder...”
“Shut up, Syn. Just... shut up and try to sleep.”
I lay on the cot, staring at the stone ceiling that seemed to press closer with each breath. The death marker sat on the shelf, catching candlelight. Tomorrow I’d fight witches. My own kind. For the privilege of hunting my best friend.
The candle burned lower. Wax pooled and hardened. I felt Silas settle somewhere above. Still angry. Still disappointed. But there. Always there.
Calder kept his vigil, blade gleaming in the dying light. Pretending he couldn’t hear my breathing. Pretending this was just another night, another watch, another chance to protect what mattered.
Finally, so quiet I almost missed it, he said, “Why couldn’t you just run?”
The question felt like a knife sliding into my heart. Because running meant letting Vitoria die alone. Because I’d been running my whole life, and some sins required you to stop. Stand. Fight.
Even if it killed you.
I closed my eyes and listened to Calder breathe. Steady. Loyal. Keeping the darkness at bay while I tried to find peace with what tomorrow would bring.
The candle guttered out, and we sat in darkness, waiting for dawn.
Both with broken hearts.