Chapter 24 Syneca
Syneca
If the kettle whistles thrice before it boils, a stranger thinks of you with ill intent.
The march back to Chancellery House felt like walking to an execution.
Lucy carried Crimson’s body wrapped in her jacket, cradling it against her chest with gentleness. Pip flew overhead in grieving circles, her usual bright chatter replaced by silence that felt heavier than any words.
We moved through streets that grew increasingly hostile the closer we got to the compound. A scorched woman spat at my feet as we passed, her face twisted with hatred. “Witch! Bringing death wherever you go!”
More circled. Not all unfriendly, but pushing in.
“Did you find the Phoenix yet?”
“Did the witch kill the sprite?”
Another man shoved forward, licking the tip of his stylus before bringing it to his small notebook. “Please... I work for the Grimora Gazette. Do you have any comments on your hunt so far?”
No one spoke; we simply moved in silence toward the Chancellery.
“How about the championship? Thunderfen Hounds are favored to beat the Banshees this year. Who do you hope to see win?”
I kept my head down and continued walking.
Calder positioned himself between me and the growing crowd, his hand near his blade.
A group of heretics closed in from the left, their tattered robes marking them as believers in whatever they’d decided was truth today.
They chanted about cleansing fire and divine cities, pressing closer with wild eyes and grasping hands.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d have wondered if they too had been cursed to believe.
“Move,” Wickett said with a growl, stepping in close enough that his shoulder aligned with mine, creating a wall with Calder on my other side.
He angled his body slightly forward, putting himself between me and the reaching hands, his stance shifting into something that promised violence. The crowd scattered.
From the Arch of Veresear, the hunters on duty watched our approach with calculating eyes. One of them studied Crimson’s wrapped body, then looked at me with undisguised contempt.
“Another witch crime?” he asked.
“Yes,” Lucy replied coldly. “But not this witch.”
I broke off from the group silently to step through the arch.
The last time, I was worried the runes protecting me had died with Eda Mire, but my true nature had remained a secret.
This time I didn’t hesitate, didn’t push back, just kept my head down and walked forward, rejoining the group without waiting for permission and kept going, bracing for whatever the Magistrate did next.
He sat in his office. I could feel the weight of his attention before we even reached the door.
Wickett must have felt the same, because his spine straightened, shoulders squared, his expression blanked into that perfect mask.
The man who’d just protected me from a city out for blood—replaced by the Ripper, obedient, controlled, everything his father demanded.
“Report,” Tiberius commanded.
Wickett delivered the facts with clear detachment. The sprite. The curse. The failed attempt to extract information. When he mentioned DEC, Tiberius’s stylus paused for barely a heartbeat before continuing its scratching across parchment.
“Meaningless,” he declared, still not looking up. “Chase your phantoms if you must. Twenty-six days remain.”
But his apparent disinterest came too quickly, too dismissively. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as us. His cold eyes finally lifted, finding me with predatory focus as he pushed from his desk.
He moved to stand before Lucy, shifting the coat that covered the fallen sprite. Pip sank to the floor, a small cry falling from her as the Magistrate threw the jacket back over Crimson. “Dispose of this thing immediately.”
In less than a heartbeat later, he came to stand before me. “Rune Weaver. You touched the dying sprite with your magic. What did you sense?”
Before I could answer, Wickett spoke from beside me, taking a step forward. “I’ve already reported—”
Tiberius’s hand cracked across his son’s face.
Wickett didn’t even flinch, just stepped back into position, that mask never slipping. But I saw the practiced way he absorbed the blow, the muscle memory of someone who’d learned exactly how to take his father’s violence.
My stomach turned.
“Did I ask you?” The Magistrate’s voice was soft, deadly, and not to be answered.
“Nothing useful,” I managed, forcing my voice to be steady as I drew attention from Wickett.
“The reaction was too strong. I assume the curse was negotiated into the terms of the original contract with Crimson. It activated before we could learn anything at all, probably the moment he considered revealing anything. Even the three letters are likely useless without knowing if they are the start of a word or initials. They could be a thousand things. The lead was a failure.” I hoped I’d kept my face blank as I spoke of the letters, like I didn’t care which they were.
That’s what he’d been told to deliver. And so he tried. Gallantly.
Tiberius studied me for a long moment, and I felt him counting every micro-expression, every tell I couldn’t quite hide. His eyes narrowed slightly when they found my hands clenched into fists without me realizing.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “Contracts can be broken. Perhaps we should test your limits, see what you’re truly capable of. When properly motivated.”
The threat lingered in the air like smoke from a newly extinguished candle.
Wickett spoke carefully, his voice perfectly controlled despite the red mark blooming across his cheek. “Five minds are greater than four, Magistrate. Damaging one weakens the entire hunt.”
Tiberius’s eyes moved between us, calculating. Then something shifted in his expression, those eyes narrowing, the corners of his mouth lifting, satisfaction mixed with cruelty.
“You’re right, of course.” He waved dismissively. “Get out. All of you.”
We filed out, but his voice stopped me at the threshold.
“Except you, Rune Weaver. We have other matters to discuss.”
My blood turned to ice.
Lucette’s hand found my arm, squeezing once before Tiberius’s sharp look made her release it. Calder’s jaw worked, but he kept walking. Only Wickett paused, his body angled back toward the office.
“I said out, Wickett. Your presence is no longer permitted. Send in my advisors.”
The door closed, leaving me alone with the Magistrate for several silent moments before a different group of people entered. At least ten men and women hunters wearing fine jewelry, pressed suits, and pointed glares.
“Several days absent from your duties at the Chancellery. Did you think becoming Venatori excused you from your obligations?”
“I—”
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten your place. Your duty to my city.” His backhand sent me sprawling. The stone floor hit hard and cold against my cheek, and I tasted blood where my teeth had cut the inside of my mouth.
“You’ll make up for lost time,” he said as if nothing had happened.
I pushed myself up slowly, carefully. My hands shook. I noted all the eyes again, wondering if one of them was Vitoria’s mysterious patron as I rose, feeling suddenly, dangerously alone.
“I can try,” I whispered. Weak. Demure. Playing the role, despite the anger burning, and the griffin, no doubt full size somewhere, rattling our bond.
Tiberius hit me again.
I fell harder this time, vision blurring. The ringing in my ears made his next words distant.
“You will not try. You will succeed.”
I stayed down. Kept my head lowered. Acted appropriately broken.
Because I finally understood. This wasn’t about my absence. This was about control. About reminding me exactly where I stood in his hierarchy.
“Rise,” he commanded.
I obeyed on shaking legs.
A young witch was escorted in, barely older than twenty, if I had to guess. He held a piece of bloodstone in trembling hands, trying to carve a rune that clearly wasn’t working. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the room’s chill.
“Show him what he’s doing wrong,” Tiberius ordered me.
I moved closer, studying the witch’s attempt. The runework was technically correct, symbols carved with sufficient precision, and the intent clear. But the magic wouldn’t flow.
“It’s not a matter of doing it wrong,” I said, keeping my voice gentle despite the taste of blood in my mouth. “It’s about strengthening a muscle. Magic requires practice and patient endurance.”
I turned to the terrified witch. “Try again. This time, when the magic wants to stop, refuse to let it. Push through the resistance.”
The young witch shook his head. “It’s so hard in this building. The wards fight me.”
Tiberius made a sound. Something like a pig’s grunt.
Fitting.
I ignored it, keeping my focus on the young man. “You’ll grow strong from practice. Nothing else will make it work, no matter how much you’re pushed.” I spoke to him, but really to everyone watching. “You’ll need to try very hard, but also to sleep, eat, and rest when your body tells you to.”
I was saving him. Giving him permission to have boundaries.
Tiberius stepped forward and grabbed the young witch by the throat.
“You will not make excuses for your lack of power when we’ve just learned it’s a simple matter of perseverance.” He leaned closer until my entire heart stopped. “You’ll weave my runes or die trying.”
He released the man, who stumbled back, gasping. “You’re dismissed for now, witch.”
The young man fled.
“The rest of you as well,” Tiberius said to his watching advisors.
They filed out, having never spoken a word, leaving me alone with the Magistrate again.
“What do you know of curses, Syneca Black? And I hope I’ve been clear. You will not lie to nor outsmart me.”