Blue light answered purple. The cheers were loud but strained, carrying the weight of loss and expectation.
“Before we begin,” the announcer’s voice dropped, becoming solemn, “we pause to remember a champion taken from us too soon. Draven Varrow. Player. Hero. Brother. Son of Noreya.”
The arena lights dimmed. A massive image appeared in the air above the field, Draven in his prime, mid-leap, one hand extended toward a crimson veil, his face fierce with concentration and joy.
The silence was gut-wrenching.
Then, from the highest platform in the arena, a figure appeared.
Magistrate Tiberius Veyne stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his silver hair catching what little light remained. Even at this distance, his presence commanded every eye.
“Draven Varrow represented the finest of our world,” his voice carried without amplification, somehow reaching every corner of the stadium. “Dedication. Excellence. The pursuit ofgreatness that defines us all. His loss diminishes us. But his memory... his memory makes us stronger.”
The crowd murmured agreement, but underneath I heard something else. Whispers. Questions. The kind of restless energy that comes when people know they’re not getting the whole truth.
“The investigation into his death continues,” Tiberius said, and his eyes seemed to find every face in the crowd before landing on a shifter frozen in the first row of the stands with a face that was a twin to her brother’s. Lucette Varrow had been another notable player of the games. But several years ago, in the middle of a game, she quit and never played again.
“Justice will be swift. Justice will be absolute. Those responsible will face the full weight of our law.”
Beside me, Vitoria had gone very still.
“Tonight, we play in Draven’s honor. We celebrate his life. And we show the world that Grimora, alongside the rest of our country of Vestra, stands united against those who would harm our champions.”
The lights blazed back to life. The crowd cheered, but it felt forced now, obligatory.
And that’s when I saw him.
Golden brown hair and a build that outsized Calder. The Ripper moved through the crowd like smoke, his dark coat flowing behind him as he climbed the steps. He paused at the end of our row, his ice-gray eyes scanning the faces around us.
My heart stopped.
In another life, he might have been the kind of man who turned heads for all the right reasons, strong jaw, broad shoulders, a face that belonged on posters. But knowing what those hands had done, what that mouth had whispered before ending lives, turned any appeal to something sick and twisted.
“Excuse me,” he said to the family blocking his path. They scrambled aside, recognizing him, fear stretched across their faces.
He moved closer. Row thirty. Row twenty-nine.
“Vitoria,” I whispered.
“I see him.”
Row twenty-eight.
His eyes swept over me. Past me. Back to me.
And stopped.
Not recognition. Not yet. But something. A stirring of memory. A hunter’s instinct that said this face, this scent, this presence—it meant something.
He took the seat directly behind us.
I could feel his breath on my neck. Could smell leather and steel and something darker. The crowd’s chants became noise. The game began, but I couldn’t focus on anything except the weight of his attention, the certainty that he was studying me.
“Veils are active!” the announcer called. “Three golden ribbons in play!”
On the arena floor, chaos erupted. Players launched themselves between platforms, reaching for streams of light that danced just out of grasp. Ingrid Shadowmere phased through a platform, her hand closing around a golden veil, but a Serpent intercepted, disrupting her grip.
The crowd roared. Someone behind us—not the Ripper, thank the Furies—shouted something about dirty tactics.
