Chapter 13
Syneca
When magic binds what nature meant to sunder, pain becomes the only honest conversation.
Icouldn’t find Calder anywhere, and the infirmary reeked of burnt flesh, medicinal herbs, and the unmaskable, iron tang of blood. Healing runes carved into the stone walls pulsed with soft amber light, their ancient symbols trying desperately to keep survivors breathing.
Bandages floated from cot to cot, wrapping themselves around wounds, while bottles of various tinctures lined shelves that seemed to shift when you weren’t looking directly at them, organizing themselves by need rather than alphabetical order.
The scorched medics squeezed between cots with practiced efficiency, their movements economical and silent. They’d learned long ago not to waste energy on sympathy. Where Wickett and I had struggled, others had truly suffered.
I didn’t need the infirmary, not really. But it had been offered by a passing shifter with a clipboard and a pair of glasses that hung on a string around her neck, and I had wanted to appear as normal as anyone else. Right now, information, even small bits, was power.
That wasn’t the only reason, though. The tether between teammates hadn’t dissipated like I assumed it would. I was still magically bound to Wickett. The ribbon between us, no longer visible, pulled taut whenever we got too far apart.
The same was true for the other survivors as well, but pairing my new tether with the Hunter’s Promise branded on the inside of my palm made my stomach churn, my chest tighten. Every moment of this went against my nature.
I was meant to hide.
To burn.
To die the moment I was ready, so another may be born from the ashes of my power. But this? This was so much worse.
I leaned against the wall, staring at the angry red welts wrapped around my right wrist like a brand.
The binding ribbon’s mark had blistered during the trial, each dark, magical connection to the Ripper leaving my flesh raw and weeping.
The medic had slathered it with a salve that reeked of sulfur, but the burning never stopped.
And no one even mentioned the Hunter’s Promise.
“Witch magic was never meant to bind with hunter steel,” the scorched woman said, not looking at me as she wrapped my wrist in clean linen. Her voice carried no judgment, just tired fact. The scorched had seen enough impossible things to stop questioning the cruelty of magic.
I stood there for several minutes waiting for Calder to show up, but he was nowhere to be found. I knew he was pissed at me for about thirty different reasons at this point, but it wasn’t like him to avoid me.
Three beds from the door, what remained of Tessa lay covered by a sheet that couldn’t hide the charred outline beneath.
The young fire witch had burned from the inside out during the trial, her inexperience with her own element turning deadly the moment real pressure hit.
Her honey-brown hair still smelled of smoke.
Darius Crane’s corpse occupied the bed beside hers, though only part of the hunter had made it back. Whichever shifter he’d been up against had certainly shown no mercy. The Mortalis claimed its victims without grace.
“Vera didn’t make it either,” Pip whispered as she passed by. The little sprite’s wings trembled with exhaustion, their usual iridescent shimmer dulled to the color of old pewter. “The maze... it got her. And Wither too.” Her voice cracked on the name of the third sprite.
Wither, Tessa, Darius, Vera and Thimble had all died. Five wasted lives. And three more would fall before this bloodbath was over. Only Pip had secured her place in the hunt.
Felix sat upright on his bed, methodically cleaning his blade with a cloth that came away red each time.
The hunter had emerged from the trial with only minor cuts, but something in his eyes had changed.
He moved the cloth in precise strokes, over and over, like he could scrub away whatever he’d been forced to do in that labyrinth after we’d left him for the finish line.
The infirmary door swung open on ancient hinges with a low groan. Though I knew he hadn’t been able to wander too far, still I could sense my executioner before he entered, stealing all of my focus in the process.
The Ripper moved with predatory grace between the beds, noting the dead with clinical detachment. When his gray eyes found mine, they held no warmth. No concern. Just cold assessment, like I was a tool that might break before being properly used.
The binding mark pulsed. He felt it too. I could tell by the way his jaw tightened. I’d have been lying if I said that didn’t give me a sense of odd satisfaction. Served the fucker right. But where the magic burned me, it seemed to slide off him like water from a stone.
“Time to go, witch,” he said. “Dinner’s being served.”
I wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove his dinner, but arguing with a man who’d just sworn to kill me sounded like wasting far too much energy at the moment.
Instead, I stepped away. “You’ve such pleasant bedside manners. They must teach charm alongside murder at the big, bad hunter school.”
His smile was all teeth and no warmth. “Among other things.”
“Like embroidery?”
“No. But I do know a dozen ways to sew a mouth shut.”
I couldn’t help myself. “Name four.”
He drew back. “What?”
I lifted a shoulder, walking toward the door. “You said you knew twelve, and that seems like an awful lot. So go on. Name four.”
His stare was a blade, but I pretended not to notice.
“Witch,” he warned.
“That doesn’t count,” I said, shaking my head. “Threatening me isn’t stitching. Unless you mean metaphorical stitching, in which case, two points for creativity.”
His jaw flexed. “You’re insufferable.”
I grinned over my shoulder. “And yet you’re still talking to me. Fascinating, isn’t it?”
His response was nothing more than a grunt. Fitting.
There was a craft to seeing how far someone could be pushed. Humanizing myself to my future murderer was going to be tricky. If witches knew how to do anything but hide, beg and plead, this man had long ago forgotten the fact.
In the underbelly of the Nexus arena, the corridors leading to the dining hall were carved from rock.
Like everything built to last, the arena was fashioned of stone.
Stone that weathered the Burnings when wood and cloth turned to ash.
Across the four continents, many old castles still stood for this reason alone, their walls scarred by war and water and time, but unbroken by flame.
Sprites darted overhead, carrying messages between floors, some of their wings leaving trails of silver dust that shone briefly before fading. One zipped past carrying a scroll marked with the Magistrate’s seal, his face pale with the terror that came from bearing bad news.
“Move faster,” Wickett said, his hand not quite touching my back, but still close enough I could feel the heat.
“I’m not your hunting hound,” I replied, but picked up the pace, anyway. The alternative was letting him literally drag me along, and I’d had enough humiliation for one day.
The dining hall rose before us like a cathedral of appetite and politics.
Vaulted ceilings disappeared into shadow, supported by columns carved with the faces of ancient leaders whose names had been forgotten when history books burned.
Though their stern expressions remained.
Candles provided warm light that danced across tables laden with more food than most people in the Crook saw in a month.
The survivors had been seated according to their teams, whether they liked it or not. The binding magic ensured compliance, pulling teammates together with invisible threads.
Our table sat in the center of the hall.
Wickett had probably picked it strategically.
The other diners—those in government that Tiberius had invited down—could watch us, study us, place their bets on who would survive the next trial.
I took the seat that kept the crowd to my back, hoping for some small measure of privacy.
Wickett sat beside me without ceremony, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched.
Lucette Varrow claimed the seat across from us. When she looked at me, I saw calculation in those dark eyes, as if she were measuring threat levels, determining which of us would be the weak link.
“I’m not your enemy,” I said, quietly enough that only those closest could hear. “One from each race, remember? You want to size up the competition, better focus on that giant fucker over there.”
The shifter named Marcus scowled in our direction as if he’d somehow heard me.
Maybe he had. Animal qualities and all that.
Pip was the only one left on his team, and she was a guarantee, like Calder.
So he was a lone wolf. Pun intended, though I was pretty sure he was some kind of weird bear-like beast shifter.
“Well, isn’t this cozy?” Pip said, settling into the remaining chair with forced cheer. The little sprite’s optimism felt brittle. She adjusted the two little blue buns on the top of her head as she surveyed the room. “I... uh, I guess I won my spot in the hunt.”
I didn’t quite know how to answer her, so I didn’t.
Further down, on the other side of the shifter Lucette, sat the rest of her team.
My counterpart was Katarina, and Wickett’s was Felix.
That was it. Two shifters, two witches and two hunters.
Still, the onlookers’ whispers seeped into my veins as they sized us up.
Most cared about Lucette and Marcus. She hadn’t shifted, and he was enormous.
Even I struggled to see how she’d beat him.
I couldn’t bring myself to look at Kat. Even when I could feel the burn of her gaze on me, I couldn’t do it. No matter the outcome of this, I’d left her in the Bloodwood to die.