Chapter 3
Syneca
Trust the hunter who shows you his blade—fear the one who keeps his sheathed while smiling.
Iabsolutely hated going to work, but a girl had to eat. And keep her lies in order... I shoved my arms into my green wool coat, the sleeves too damn heavy for the early hour. My curls refused to stay pinned, copper strands springing loose no matter how many times I tucked them back. The blouse underneath was creased, but decent enough, its collar half-hidden by the coat’s thick lapel. I tightened the buttons, tucked in the small golden necklace I always wore, muttered a spell to keep the draft from biting through, and whistled low for Silas. Work waited, and I was already late.
The walk through the Ruby district and past the Crook took twenty minutes if you moved quickly, thirty if you didn’t want to arrive sweating. I chose to sweat. My boots clicked against cobblestones still slick from last night’s rain.
The streets narrowed here, buildings leaning toward each other like conspirators, their timber frames black with age andcoal smoke. They’d burn when the world caught fire again, but that was always the risk when building on a budget.
I hurried past the Silver Fang. Its windows were dark, but I could hear voices inside. Drinking was no longer prohibited in the city—the prior Magistrate’s desperate attempt at order—but old habits died hard, and the speakeasy kept its morning-after hours for nostalgia.
A courier sprite zipped past my shoulder, probably making an early delivery for Wingtip Couriers and Co. further down the street. The cloak maker’s shop on the corner already had its door propped open, and through the window I caught the gleam of shears moving on their own, cutting fabric with enchanted precision. Two doors down, a cobbler’s hammer tapped a steady rhythm, carved with a rune to never miss its mark, no doubt. There was solace in the magic of our world. That which the current Magistrate condemned made life easier. He just hadn’t gotten the fucking memo.
Above, Silas kept pace, always watching, never seen by anyone who mattered. Two scorched shuffled past, their movements precise and mechanical, eyes forward, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze. One carried a load of bricks that would break a normal person’s back. The other pulled a cart loaded with barrels, the wheels groaning under weight that should’ve required a horse, maybe even a centaur, but those were expensive, and the scorched worked for copper pennies and watered ale. They didn’t complain. They didn’t organize. They just worked until their bodies gave out. I envied them sometimes. There had to be peace in possessing so little magic that the worst thing hunting you was exhaustion.
A flower cart sat at the next corner, its blooms arranged by enchantment rather than hand. Black roses rearranged themselves by size, their petals glistening despite the lack of rain this morning. I dodged around it, nearly clipping a customerwho couldn’t decide between the drooping mourning lilies and something with thorns.
The smell of fresh bread hit me hard, warm and yeasty, and my stomach growled a reminder that I’d skipped breakfast. Again. The baker pulled loaves from his window display, each one stamped with a warming rune, and I made a mental note to stop on the way home. If Calder and Vitoria hadn’t turned the world upside down somehow.
A vendor ladled cups of mulled cider from his cart, the steam curling up with an invitation I didn’t have time for. I sidestepped a child chasing a paper bird that flapped its wings and dove between my ankles, her mother shouting apologies while juggling a basket of pastries still warm enough to steam through the cloth. The smell of honeyed pork and roasted figs from the next stall made my stomach clench with want, but I was already late. I knew I shouldn’t have come this way, but there was comfort along these streets, and it was the quickest path to work.
Two men blocked half the street outside a print shop, arguing over something while enchanted newspapers fluttered around them, headlines changing as the news did. I shouldered past without apology, glimpsing the words ‘murder’ and ‘Tangles’ before the text shifted again.
The district changed as I climbed the hill. Timber gave way to cut stone. The smell of fresh bread and baked goods faded to rusted metal and leather polish. Here, glass filled the windows instead of oiled paper. Here, the scorched wore matching tunics with their employer’s crest, their heads bowed and clothes clean. No one in Fuerlis was born without magic, but they were the closest to the humans that used to inhabit this world. Each with only a seed of power, and rarely did it give them more than the ability to use a single rune and hope something happened.
Only witches could perform magic without runes. That should have put us at the top of the food chain—and maybe we would have been, had the world not been burned to ash so many times because of the Phoenix witch.
The Arch of Veresear spanned the Chancellery entrance, its white stone embedded with runes that pulsed with faint silver light. The morning crowd bunched at its threshold, merchants, clerks, scorched laborers, a handful of shifters and sprites. Everyone who worked at the Chancellery passed through. Everyone submitted to its judgment, believing that, should the Phoenix ever be dumb enough to approach, she would be detected, and no doubt killed immediately by the armed hunters.
No one wanted another Burning. Not even me. But the Magistrate wasn’t smart enough to see that his precious arch wouldn’t save us from the only enemy every country agreed to hunt: the Phoenix. It didn’t matter which city you lived in, which corner of the world you called home; everyone wanted her dead. She was destined to burn the world to ash, to bring about the next Burning that would disintegrate almost everything, except those protected by Life Runes. There were whispers that some places didn’t hate witches the way Grimora did, but no one—not even them—would protect the creature prophesied to destroy it all.
A shifter three spots ahead of me in line stepped through. The runes flared red. An alarm split the morning air, sharp as breaking glass.
“Hold there,” a hunter called out, but he was already laughing. The shifter grinned back, digging through his satchel until he produced a silver flask.
“Forgot I had this.” He waved it sheepishly. “Opening day gift from the wife. Enchanted to stay cold. Go Silverbolts.”
The hunter examined it and nodded. “Should’ve declared it. You know the rules about concealed enchantments. Even on game day.”
“Won’t happen again.”
The hunter pointed to a small pin on his lapel that matched the blue color of the Silverbolt Serpents emblem. He smiled and handed the flask back. “Bet they win by six tonight.”
“Against the Banshees? I’ve got ten crowns on a fifteen-point slay.”
“Strong bet,” the hunter said before gesturing the shifter on.
My throat tightened. A witch carrying the same flask would already be on her knees, hands bound, while they searched for darker secrets. The Veresear didn’t just detect magic, it revealed hidden truths. And witches, by law, weren’t permitted any.
The line moved forward. A scorched woman passed through, the runes barely flickering. Then a merchant, his rings glowing faintly as the arch cataloged each petty enchantment.
My turn.
My heart hammered the same sick rhythm it had beaten every morning for years. Logically, I knew there was nothing to fear. I’d placed runes into the arch’s foundation stones the night before I started working here, inverse patterns that blinded it to my true nature. But logic didn’t stop my palms from sweating. Didn’t stop me from imagining the alarm shrieking, the guards converging, Silas diving from the clouds in a fury of claws and rage that would damn us both.
I stepped through.
