“Banshees take first blood!”
One of their players had guided a veil through the Silverbolt portal, scoring the game’s first point. Purple light erupted across the arena.
I tried to focus on the game. Tried to lose myself in the spectacle. But every time I moved, every time I cheered, I felt dangerous eyes cataloging my reactions.
“Second veil secured by Kaine Mills!”
The Silverbolt star moved with liquid grace, his enhanced hunter reflexes allowing him to intercept a silver veil mid-flight. He spun, redirected its momentum, and sent it sailing toward the purple portal.
The score was tied at one.
“He’s good,” Vitoria said, but her voice was tight.
“Not good enough,” I replied, louder than necessary. Playing my part. Just another fan in the stands.
But my shoulders ached from holding them straight. My jaw hurt from clenching it. And still, that presence loomed behind me like a storm cloud ready to break.
The third veil was brighter than the others, moving with vicious unpredictability. It shot between platforms like a living thing, evading every attempt to capture it.
“Brighter veils are worth double points,” Calder murmured.
“I know the rules,” I snapped, then immediately felt guilty. It wasn’t his fault I was wound tighter than a desperate final spell.
Ingrid Shadowmere made another run at the veil. She changed shape into a beautiful, giant panther, reached with her maw?—
And missed as a Serpent player slammed into the platform beside her, the impact sending vibrations through the arena.
The veil spiraled away, frustrated, seeking a new target.
Vitoria scooted closer to me. “Banshees need to control the middle platforms. They’re giving up too much space.”
Behind us, the Ripper shifted in his seat. I heard the creak of leather, felt the subtle change in air pressure as he leaned forward.
“Interesting analysis,” he said, his voice pitched just loud enough for us to hear. “You sound like you know the game well.”
Vitoria turned, flashing him her brightest, elongated-fang smile. “My father played semi-professionally. I grew up in arenas like this.”
Lies flowed so easily from her. Smooth. Natural. Beautiful.
The Ripper’s eyes moved to her face, studying her with the same intensity he’d focused on me. “And you?” he asked, his gaze sliding to mine. “Also a legacy player?”
My throat felt like sandpaper. “Just a fan. I work for the Chancellery. Don’t get out much.”
“The Chancellery.” His voice held no inflection at all. “What department?”
Think, Syneca. Think fast.
But I couldn’t lie. We both knew he already had the answer.
“Binding Documentation. Mostly tax forms. Nothing exciting.”
“Tax forms.” He leaned back slightly. “I know someone in that department. Matthias Greying. Efficient man.”
“Very efficient,” I agreed, pointedly keeping the bite from my tone.
“Indeed.” The Ripper’s attention shifted back to the arena, but I could feel him listening to every word we spoke, noting every inflection.
The game continued, but the joy had bled out of it. What should have been celebration felt like interrogation. Every cheer felt forced. Every reaction felt watched.
