The silver light washed over me, cold as winter rain. The runes pulsed once.
Nothing.
I exhaled and kept walking without looking back. Another morning. Another lie hidden successfully from stone and silver. Behind me, the next person entered the Veresear. The morningcontinued its orderly procession. And I disappeared into the crowd of workers, just another body heading to earn their bread, carrying no significant magic at all. Mostly.
The Chancellery loomed, five stories of polished gray stone. Inside, the air tasted of parchment dust and fear, the particular brand that came from having too many witches in one place, all wishing they weren’t what they were.
All registered witches were required by law to work for the Magistrate. Some for months, some for years; either way, a penance was due.
I pushed through the heavy doors into controlled chaos. Sprites darted overhead like silver bullets, their tiny hands clutching scrolls marked with red wax seals. One dove too close to my head, hissing something about “priority routing” before banking hard toward the upper floors. Their usual cheer had been bred out of the Chancellery sprites generations ago. Here, they were tools. Nothing more.
Beyond the atrium, boasting its giant pendulum meant to keep everyone on perfect time, the main floor sprawled before me, a maze of desks where the scorched bent over their work. Their fingers moved in careful, deliberate patterns, tracing rune marks onto stone with painful slowness. One rune per day if they pushed themselves. Two, if they wanted to last the week. The drops of magic in their blood were barely enough to make the symbols glow.
Above them, real magic hummed through the air, contained, regulated, documented. Every spell cast in this building required three forms, two witnesses, and a senior clerk’s approval. Unless you were a Rune Weaver. We were the exception.
We were thenecessary exception.
“Late again, Syneca.” Matthias didn’t look up from his ledger as I passed his station. The Magistrate’s absence meant he ruledthis floor, and he wore that authority like an ill-fitting coat. “Third time this month.”
Yes, asshole. I’m aware. I couldn’t say it, but I wanted to.
“The arch was backed up.” I kept walking toward my corner in the Department of Binding Documentation. “Half the district is trying to get through at once.”
“Mmm.” His pale fingers drummed against his desk. “I’ve left several urgent items requiring your particular attention. Tax documents. Time sensitive.”
Tax documents.Damn it.They required specialized runes to be embedded into the small seals that would make them harder to trace, harder to question. The runes were security focused more than anything and the worst to make.
My workspace sat tucked between two massive filing cabinets, barely large enough for my desk and chair. But it was mine. For three years I’d carved runes here, bleeding magic into stone and paper while pretending I was nothing more than another witch paying her dues.
The stack waiting for me stood two hands high.
I sat, pulled the first document forward, and began the tedious work of Rune Weaving. My fingers found the water basin beside my desk. Every witch had their element, their anchor. For anyone who ever observed me, it was clear my gift was with water.
“Aquaflux,” I whispered, low enough that only the paper could hear.
The water rose from the basin in thin streams, carrying magic with it. Where the water touched the parchment’s seal, runes formed, intricate, perfect, permanent. Each symbol pulled from my core with slight resistance, as was always the case when I used magic, draining me drop by drop. This was why they needed us. A scorched could make a single rune in a day. I could make eighty in the same time. But Rune Weavers were also rare.It was a learned skill, but there was a finesse and depth of power behind the ability that was rare to find.
The first document was a shipping manifest for grain. Boring. Normal. Except for the payment authorization tucked behind it. Fifty thousand gold crowns to “N.K.C. Holdings.” For grain that would feed maybe a thousand people. That was... odd.
The second held lumber receipts. Another forty thousand to “Dec Industries.” The third, silk imports. Sixty thousand to “P.R. Enterprises.”
The magic trembled as I worked, recognizing the pattern even as I forced myself to keep weaving runes. Someone was moving money. Massive amounts. And they were using magic to hide it.
“S.B. Collective” appeared on the fourth document. Ninety thousand crowns for “specialized services.” People starved in the Crook, still paid their taxes, and yet the government was concealing more money than would feed the whole country for a year. I took a deep breath, chancing a glance around to see if anyone knew what I was doing. What I was helping the Magistrate hide. No one stirred from the mundane monotony of their jobs. No one noticed me. But I wanted to crawl out of my skin. This was wrong.
Before I could really react, Matthias slid his glasses down his nose, staring at me over the rim. I quickly looked away, grabbing the next document. I needed this job to keep myself safe. I couldn’t make waves. This was survival. This was necessary. So I put my head down and got back to work.
The door to the Chancellery slammed open.
Hunters poured in like a plague of leather and steel, tracking mud across floors I’d watched scorched workers scrub for hours. Dicks. They smelled of beasts and sweat and the wild places beyond the city walls, where monsters dwelled and death was asport. Everyone froze over their work. Sprites hung mid-flight. I tried to remember to blink.
The lead hunter stepped forward, and my blood turned to ice.
The Ripper.
His long brown hair was neatly tied back, revealing the sharp angles of his face. The marks along his arms, famed tallies of his kills, glistened beneath the chandeliers’ warm light. The same voice that had breathed threats against my ear in the Bloodwood now filled the Chancellery’s vast hall.
“—confirmed the body myself,” his words carried across the silent room, speaking to another hunter behind him, though everyone heard. “Draven Varrow. Assassinated after the fourteenth bell.”
