Chapter 29
Syneca
When you feel the fire rising in your marrow and know your time is ending, do not fight the flames. I learned this too late: resistance only makes the burning last longer.
Iwalked down the corridor with a towel wrapped around my wet hair, still dripping onto the shoulders of my shirt. The bath had been necessary, washing away the smell from that awful house, the fear, and the growing certainty that everything I thought I knew was a lie.
I couldn’t quite accept it, though. Because if Vitoria were helping witches at the docks, she would have told me.
I was sure of it. About as sure as I was that she’d lied straight to my face about her parents.
So, maybe Calder was right, and she just wasn’t the person I thought she was.
Did she deserve to die for helping witches escape the Magistrate though?
Absolutely fucking not. But clearly there was far more to the story.
Wickett appeared from the opposite end of the hall, boots caked with mud. He must have been down with Timber, probably the only thing he could think to do while waiting for the games to start if he wanted to avoid a certain government head.
The distance between us was eaten up by his long strides, his eyes never leaving mine. This was the first time we’d been alone since breaking into the Chancellery, and I wasn’t sure either of us was ready to confront whatever had stirred between us that night.
It had meant nothing, just nerves and danger tangled up in the dark, a moment that felt bigger than it was because we’d both thought we might be caught. That was all. It had to be. Now, there was only the mission, the work, and the space I needed to make sure stayed between us.
“Morning games start soon,” Wickett said.
Great. We were on the same page. Keeping it professional.
“We’ve got decent seats this time,” he said, probing me for a response with the faintest hint of a smile.
There was something there though. A crack in the facade. The tiniest bit of lightness beyond the mask of the famous Ripper.
I narrowed my eyes. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were looking forward to it. That’s awfully surprising for a hunter, Wickett Veyne.”
“It’s one of the few things my father hasn’t ruined.” The lightness on his face dimmed slightly. “Of course I’m looking forward to it.”
I’d sat in front of him at the last Nexus game, terrified he could feel my fear.
Convinced he’d see through every lie, every carefully constructed piece of my false life.
Worried he’d remembered holding me against him in the Bloodwood.
The weight of his presence behind me at the games had been suffocating, inescapable, and he’d just been enjoying the game.
He was actually a... fan. He liked something.
And, for some reason, knowing that secret felt like I’d just won a battle with him.
I started wringing my curls out with the towel, leaning into his secret, eager for more of the man behind the legend. “What’s so appealing about watching people beat each other bloody for entertainment?”
“It’s not about the violence. It’s about the strategy. The way a good team moves with one mind. The way every single person on the team can predict what the others will do, simply because they trust each other. The split-second decisions that change everything.”
Decisions like helping your natural enemy search your father’s office? Like hiding with her instead of protecting your own interests? Was that what we were becoming: a team? Or was this more? Was this defiance?
His hand lifted toward my hair, not quite touching, fingers hovering near the damp strands. My heart pounded in a way that didn’t feel like teamwork, but something more dangerous. We had to work together, but trust? Trusting each other was mutually ensured destruction. We both knew that.
I took a breath, forcing myself back to the present, choosing to ignore how close he was standing.
He was talking about a game and performing a physiological evaluation about a man who was trying to show me who he really was.
Letting my guard down was foolish though.
I couldn’t be the silent war against his father.
No matter how beautiful he was. No matter how rare that smile was.
Keeping things neutral, I said the first safe thing that came to mind. “It sounds like you’ve been to a lot of games.”
“A fair few.” He paused, and I could tell he was debating giving anything else. “The first time I went, I was seven. My mother took me every chance she got before she...”
He didn’t finish, which told me enough. His father had come up plenty of times, but he’d never mentioned his mother before. Now I knew why. He was protecting her memory like he protected himself. With silence.
“She loved it?”
He nodded, eyes growing a shade brighter as he stepped back, leaning against the wall as he slid his hands into his pockets.
.. relaxing. “She lived for it. She taught me how to read the field, explained plays to me.” His enthusiasm had turned wistful, but then he frowned, and my stomach fell along with his tiny smile.
“My father hated that she wasted time on games instead of training me. But for a few hours, in those stands, I was just a kid watching Nexus with his mother. Not the lead hunter’s son. Not a future leader. Just... me.”
My chest tightened at the vulnerability in that admission. “So, basically you’re a secret Nexus nerd,” I said, trying to lighten the moment before it crushed us both.
He scowled. “I prefer ‘enthusiast.’”
“Nerd.”
“Strategic appreciator.”
“Definitely nerd.”
“Must you argue every point?”
I tossed the wet towel over my shoulder. “Have you met me?”
My smile dropped as he stepped in close, reaching for a curly strand of my copper hair again, only he didn’t close the distance. I took a step away, begging my heart to remain calm. To make sure he knew we were on the same page. This was reckless and...
He stepped forward, eyes locked on mine.
“Every day I wish I hadn’t... and every damn day I’m worse for it.”
Oh, fuck.
His hand was still hovering near my hair. Too close. “You’re dripping water on the floor, little red witch.”
I swallowed. Barely. “Observant.”
“It’s one of my better qualities.”
“Along with being a Nexus nerd?” I asked, though it was far softer than I’d meant it to be.
“Among other things.” His fingers finally made contact, sliding down one damp curl with achingly slow precision. Testing. Gentle in a way I’d never associated with the Ripper.
But that was because of my own trauma. Maybe he had a soft side. Everyone did somewhere. If you dug deep enough. I’d just accidentally unearthed his. My breath still snagged. His eyes fell to my parted lips, darkening slightly.
“Syn—”
“D-don’t.”
What was I saying?
Don’t stop?
Don’t start?
Don’t make me feel things I couldn’t afford with only twenty-two days left and everything falling apart!
But somehow he edged closer. Close enough, I could see the faint scar along his jaw. Close enough to see the way his hair curled when it fell from the leather cord holding it back. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him despite the cool corridor.
“Tell me to leave,” he muttered, voice rough.
“I should.”
“Say it like you mean it, and I will.”
His hand moved from my hair to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with the kind of reverence that made the fire in my soul stir. I clamped down on it, forcing back the flames.
I needed to put a stop to this, or I was going to combust.
A distant tug at my core confirmed I wasn’t the only one concerned about my control. The reminder made me pull back, but Wickett’s other hand found my waist, steadying me. Or steadying himself, I couldn’t tell which.
“This is a terrible idea,” I whispered, ignoring another insistent tug from my bond with Silas.
“The worst.” But he leaned forward anyway, his forehead nearly touching mine. “We’re bound by a blood oath. You’re hunting someone who you thought was a friend. My father would kill us both if he knew—”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t—”
“Maybe.” His thumb traced my bottom lip, and I forgot how to breathe. “But I’ve spent thirty-four years doing what I should. And right now, standing here with you, I don’t fucking care about should.”
For a heartbeat, I tried to make sense of it, to tell myself this was defiance, loneliness, grief, anything but what it was. Maybe he just needed someone who understood what it felt like to be hunted by a life you didn’t choose.
But when his breath brushed mine, I realized I didn’t care why. Every inch of restraint I had trembled on the edge of breaking. If he kissed me, I wasn’t sure whether I’d melt or catch fire. Another heartbeat and—
“Syneca.” Riot’s voice cut through the moment like a blade. “The Oracle requests your presence.”
Wickett’s hands dropped immediately, stepping back with the practiced ease of someone used to hiding. The mask slipped back into place so smoothly I almost doubted the softness had been real. Almost doubted the way his hands had trembled slightly against my skin.
“I’ll see you at the games,” he said, already turning away.
But I caught the tightness in his jaw. The way his hands clenched briefly into fists before relaxing.
He wanted that kiss as much as I had.
Maybe more.
I watched him go, my heart still hammering, my skin still burning where he’d touched me.
The Oracle’s room was more elaborate than I expected. With rich fabrics, comfortable furniture, and picture windows letting in streams of morning light, the room seemed larger still. She sat on the windowsill, turned toward the sun like she could look upon it through sheer force of will.
Maybe she could.
“You wanted to see me?” I asked, standing awkwardly near the door.
“Come in, child. Sit.” Her voice was gentle. “Riot, the chair.”
He moved a plush armchair closer to the window, positioning it where the sunlight would fall across my face. Then, surprisingly, he settled onto the floor near the Oracle’s feet, his massive frame somehow making the position look natural rather than subservient.
“I can’t see it,” Aureth said, still facing the window. “But I can feel its warmth. Feel the light on my skin. It’s enough.”
Silence stretched. Not uncomfortable, just... waiting.
Finally, Riot spoke. “When a Fury dies, all of her belongings—everything she owned—transfers to the Sanctuary. Back to the Furies.” He pulled something from his pocket. A key. Ornate brass, worn smooth with age and use. “It’s tradition. It’s law.”
I recognized the Gilded Pestle’s front door key.
“I knew Eda Mire for a long, long time,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion he wasn’t trying to hide. “I’m quite sure I won’t recover from her unnecessary loss. She was... She was everything the Furies should be. Fierce. Compassionate. Uncompromising in principle.”
“Riot blames himself,” the Oracle said quietly. “He went to see Eda Mire the night I was attacked with the dagger. That’s why he was away.”
Understanding hit like cold water. “You were going to visit her when—”
“I wanted to. She was out when someone tried to kill Aureth with poison.” His jaw tightened. “I should have been here.”
“I dismissed him,” Aureth cut in firmly. “I don’t want a babysitter all the time. The fault is in sending him away, not in his going.”
Something didn’t add up. “But there were two attempts. After the poison, after someone tried to kill you, why would you ever let him leave again?”
The Oracle’s expression shifted, something almost like amusement in the twist of her smile.
“Because I am a fury-born. I do not require permission to make my own choices, even foolish ones. And because Riot trained Eda Mire. They were friends for a very long time. Longer than he and I have been.” She reached out, her hand finding his arm with unerring accuracy.
“Sometimes friendship does not bend to convenience or safety.”
Riot held the key out to me. “I truly believe Eda Mire would have wanted you to have the shop. I saw the honest sorrow in your eyes that day. Your love for her mirrors what I feel for all the Furies.”
I stared at the key, not taking it. “I’m not... I don’t deserve—”
“She chose you to train,” the Oracle said. “Years ago, when you were just beginning to understand your magic. She saw something in you worth nurturing. Worth protecting.”
“It’s the same thing I saw in her. Take it.” He pressed the key into my hand. “Honor her memory. Please.”
The brass was warm against my palm. I closed my fingers around it, feeling the weight of everything that shop represented.
Looking at Riot now—really looking—I saw him clearly for the first time. Not a threat. Not a mystery. Just a man who’d loved someone and lost her, who carried guilt like a stone in his chest, who served the Furies not out of obligation but genuine devotion.
A servant. A dragon Guardian. That was all he’d ever been. All he’d ever be.
“Thank you,” I whispered, tucking the key carefully into my pocket.
I stood to leave, already thinking about the games, the performance we’d have to give, the weight of Tiberius’s expectations.
“Syneca.” The Oracle’s voice stopped me at the door. “Breaking an oath is not always betrayal. Sometimes it is the only path to the truth.”
She was talking about his oath to her, I realized. Suggesting he didn’t have to serve forever, that he could choose freedom if he wanted it. The thought made me sad. Riot seemed happy in his service. Content in his devotion.
I left them there—the blind Oracle in her window and the dragon at her feet.