Chapter 12
Syneca
Never leave a spoon in your tea overnight; the demons will stir your dreams until dawn.
“You volunteered.” Wickett’s voice cut through the arena’s chaos like his blade through bone: clean, precise, and utterly without warmth. “Why?”
This was my first test. Not the trials to come, not whatever horrors Tiberius had planned. This. Right here. With the Ripper standing close enough that I could count the kill marks etched into his skin.
I shrugged, keeping my voice light despite the ribbon binding us together like a leash. “What can I say? I like long walks in dangerous arenas.”
His jaw flexed. “That’s not an answer.”
It was, just not the kind he wanted. I let my eyes linger on the ribbon between us.
Don’t look too smug. Don’t look too scared. Just... somewhere in the middle.
“Sorry to disappoint you, hunter.”
“You’d have to matter to me for that, witch.”
I smirked. Maybe I could push back a little. “Oh, you do care. You care about keeping us in line. About making us grovel. Confessing our sins.”
Something flickered in his eyes before he blinked it away. “Do you have sins, witch?”
“Not unless sarcasm counts.”
He stepped closer. Too close. Steel and storm clung to him, and my damn pulse tripped over itself. Great. Exactly what I needed. Heart palpitations.
“What I want to know,” his voice dropped low, “is why a Rune Weaver from the Chancellery signed her own death warrant. Even if you last through the Mortalis, you won’t last the hunt.”
“I’m just full of surprises. That, or I’m foolish. Could go either way, honestly.”
“You’re reckless. Suicidal, even. But not a fool. My father doesn’t keep fools around.”
I arched my brow. “Flattery from the infamous Ripper? Careful. I might faint from all the kindness.”
“You should be terrified.”
Finally, I met his eyes. “Of you?”
“Of what comes after. Everyone runs from me eventually.”
I tilted my head, let my lips curl as I walked a careful edge. “Must be exhausting. All that running, and nothing left at the end but corpses.”
“Better corpses than cowards.”
A chill tightened in my chest, but I forced the smirk to stay put. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
“Well, lucky for you, I’m neither. Which means you can keep your curiosity on a leash until the Mortalis is over. I’ve got better things to do than feed your appetite for riddles. Like making sure I’m not the next creepy, silver mark on your arm to be bragged about.”
His gray eyes narrowed. “You think you’ll last more than a day?”
I lifted my chin. “I think I’ll last as long as I need to.”
Behind us, Wither whimpered, voice thin with fear as he broke our argument. “We’re going to die.”
“Not all of us,” I said, still staring Wickett down.
“That’s helpful,” Wickett muttered.
I smiled sweetly. “Would you prefer a bedtime story? Courage, friendship, and all that? I can make it sound real pretty if it’ll help you sleep, hunter.”
His mouth twitched. Not quite amusement. Something darker. “I don’t sleep.”
“Explains those atrocious bags under your eyes.” My tone was airy, but inside I braced. I could mock and deflect, but I needed to keep it light enough he wouldn’t get an urge to snap my neck, here and now.
His stare sharpened. “So you’re lying to me already.”
“Maybe, or maybe you’re more useful to me with your mind on the Mortalis.” I let the words dangle, half a taunt, half a shield. “But I’d bet my last crown you not only sleep, you snore louder than a troll after an all-nighter.”
Tiberius’s voice cut through whatever response Wither might have mustered, as well as whatever Wickett wanted to say.
“Teams are chosen. Let the first trial reveal who is worthy to become Venatori.”
The arena floor cracked, and not subtly. A fissure opened like a wound, spreading outward until the grass became a spiderweb. Between the newly formed gaps, what looked like black water gleamed.
The crowd gasped collectively, some pressing forward for a better view, others backing away as if the cracks might pull them inward.
A child screamed. Someone shouted about refunds.
All the usual crowd responses to impending death, it seemed.
Just fascination wrapped in denial that it could happen to them.
Tiberius continued. “The Drowning Maze. Each team must race to retrieve the rune from the heart and make it back to the entrance. The team that wins will be granted a boon for the next trial. The water rises continuously and burns magic. The stronger the power, the worse the pain.”
Wickett’s eyes flicked to me. Hunters carried magic in their weapons and runes. Witches carried it in blood and bone. We’d burn from the inside out.
“Only one team member needs to survive with the stone.” Tiberius paused, savoring the weight of that statement.
Then his smile widened, theatrical and cold.
“Though statistically speaking, most teams won’t produce even one survivor.
The water is quite efficient at sorting the worthy from the.
.. expendable.” He leaned forward slightly, as if sharing a secret with us while the crowd listened in.
“Do try to make it interesting though. There’s nothing quite as disappointing as watching potential champions drown in the first five minutes.
At least give us a show before you fail.
” He clapped his hands once, sharp and final. “Begin.”
The floor collapsed.
The water stung like acid. Even expecting it, the pain was excruciating. But pain was just data, and I’d learned to file it away young.
The landing chamber had three passages, filled to my knees and rising fast. Above, the ceilings were made of glass so the crowd could still see our misery.
I jumped right into strategy, thinking as fast as I could.
The water came from somewhere. It had to.
The arena didn’t have infinite stores. So they were cycling it.
Pumping it upward, letting it fall through the maze before collecting it again below.
Which meant the water would rise faster as it collected in dead ends, but slower in passages with an outlet.
The champion’s rune would likely be in the slowest filling chamber because they’d want to allow time for teams to reach it—to fight over it.
Drama over drowning.
“Left passage slopes up,” Wickett said.
“And leads to a dead end.” I was already moving right, not just reading the current.
I touched the wall, felt the temperature difference.
“Feel the stone. It’s warmer here. That means air on the other side, probably a larger chamber.
The center chamber would need to be the largest to accommodate multiple teams fighting. ”
He studied me for exactly two heartbeats, then followed. “You think like prey that learned to hunt.”
“Careful, now. That almost sounded like respect.”
“Recognition. I save respect for the living.”
The passage narrowed until we were single file. Wickett led because he’d shouldered past me, and I let him because he’d hit the traps first.
Arrogant fool.
Wither flew closely behind me, though his wings flapped erratically.
“Chamber ahead,” the Ripper called over his shoulder.
The glass ceiling was seven feet high, but the water was already at four. Three passages led out, one already submerged. I read the room instantly—not just the layout, but the purpose.
“This is an elimination chamber,” I announced, desperately trying to hide my wince at the pain from the water.
Wickett nodded. “Correct. It’s too small for real fighting. It’s designed to make teams panic and force them to make mistakes.”
That’s when Wither broke.
“Can’t breathe, can’t—I need—”
He dipped low in his hysteria, his wings grazing the poisonous water. The effect was instantaneous. His wings began to smoke and dissolve where they’d touched. He shrieked, the sound piercing despite his small size, and the weight of his damaged wings pulled him into the water.
I dove immediately, ignoring the absolute agony that surged through me.
My hands found his small form in the black water, but his wings were mostly gone, the delicate membrane dissolving like sugar in rain.
The water burned against my skin, but for him?
Those wings were all magic, no real physical substance. He was literally coming apart.
I surfaced with him clutched in my hands, his body convulsing. “Stay still, just—”
But there was nothing to do. The water had already soaked through. His bright skin turned gray, flaking away. His eyes found mine, terrified and already dimming.
“Tell them—” he started, his voice breaking. “Tell the Circle I tried to be brave.”
The Circle. The sprite communication network. Even while dying, he was thinking of his message routes, his purpose.
Wickett moved beside me, blade out. “I can make it quick.”
“No.” I held Wither closer to my chest, trying to shield what was left of him from the water and the monster that wanted to claim another life. “He hasn’t asked for that. It’s not our choice to make for him.”
Wither’s tiny hand gripped my finger. The strength surprised me. “The water witch is kind,” he whispered, and then his grip loosened.
He didn’t dissolve dramatically. He just... stopped. One moment there was a tiny being in my hands; the next there was weight without life.
“You tried,” Wickett said quietly. Not comforting. Just observing.
“And failed,” I said, letting each drop of water burn as I released Wither’s body. I couldn’t show weakness. Bravery sure, but I couldn’t mourn someone I didn’t know in front of a crowd that didn’t give a shit about me. Or him. I’d save it for later. “Middle passage. Now.”
The Ripper had no argument as he turned away. The tunnel barely fit his shoulders. Skin scraped stone more than once, followed by cursing that would’ve impressed the dock workers. The biting water reached our necks when we emerged into another chamber.