“The Grand Platform, sir. He said you’d understand why.”
The Grand Platform. Center of the festival. Maximum visibility. My father was making a statement, and statements meant blood.
“Continue disposal,” I told my Sentinels. “Then send a patrol to the Tangles. I want every shadow checked.”
I didn’t wait for confirmation. They’d obey, or they’d die. Simple equation. Because in this role, there could be no room for error. No hint of defiance. Rain turned the cobblestonesinto rivers as I ran. The crowds were already fleeing toward the city center, their panic thick enough to taste with the sprites all frozen, delivering an urgent message.
“Get to Blackbriar's Square!”
The platform came into view, lit with magic despite the rain. My father stood at its center, commanding absolute attention from the gathering crowd. No flourish. No theater. Tiberius didn’t need performance when his presence alone could stop hearts. He knew it, and he reveled in it.
I took the platform steps three at a time, sliding into position at my father’s right hand. No words exchanged. The perfect soldier. The ideal son. Everything my father had carved me into, one brutal lesson at a time.
My eyes swept the crowd, cataloging threats by instinct. Drunk officials. Terrified merchants. Shifters trying to blend in. Witches pretending no one knew who they were. What they were.
Motion drew my attention. A large figure pushing through the crowd, his entire presence shielding a smaller woman.
The Heartless One. Even from here, I could see the killer’s grace in how he moved, the readiness for violence in every step. A notorious killer walking free, simply because his cause was just. Vengeance for his slain family. Beside him...
Copper hair. Blue eyes, bright even in the rain. Freckles across pale skin.
Recognition locked in place with the finality of a death sentence. The witch from the Chancellery. The one who’d sat panicked for the entire opening game, simply because I was near.
My father’s eyes shifted, just slightly, watching my reaction. Testing it. Always testing. Even with his prized Rune Weaver.
I let my jaw tighten. Let my fingers flex against the blade’s grip. Performed the rage he’d trained into me since I could holdsteel. One throw. Through the crowd, between the gaps, into her throat. The thought came unbidden. Not from desire but from years of conditioning. From knowing exactly what Tiberius Veyne expected his son to think when spotting a witch.
The performance was flawless. Had to be. But the order hadn’t been given.
Somewhere beneath the muscle memory and trained responses, in a place I’d learned to bury deeper than even my father could reach, something else stirred. The same thing that made me sick when I found burnt witch remains in the morning. The same thing that had me leaving certain doors unlocked, certain paths unguarded.
Soon my father would give an order. Soon I’d hunt again.
But not tonight.
Chapter 8
Syneca
Truth burns brighter than any flame, but lies cast the longest shadows.
The bells had started before we even reached Blackbriar’s Square, taking over for the sprites, who were finally free.
Bronze voices cut through the storm, each toll a warning. Calder’s hand found my elbow, steering me through the narrow streets as rain turned cobblestones slick as ice. People poured from buildings, some still clutching blankets, others half-dressed and stumbling. The closer we got to the Square, the tighter the crowd became. Shopfronts lined the edges, their windows dark, awnings sagging under the weight of rainwater. Above us, a dragon circled through the storm clouds, its silhouette massive against the occasional flash of lightning.
The Square opened before us, vast and already packed. The Grand Platform loomed at the far end, raised high enough that whoever stood on it could look down on the thousands gathered below. Rune lamps flickered along its edges, their light struggling against the rain. To our left, the train station sat darkand useless, its arched entrance barely visible through the night. The station’s clocktower still stood, though its face had stopped years ago.
People kept pushing in from every side street, filling the Square until there was barely room to breathe, pushing us closer and closer to the platform.
“Emergency assembly,” someone shouted from a doorway. “All citizens to Blackbriar’s Square.”
“What kind of emergency?” a woman called back.
No one answered.
Hunters appeared at every corner, herding the flow of bodies. Their faces were stone, but I caught the tension in their shoulders, the way their hands never strayed far from their weapons. Whatever this was, even they were rattled.
“Stay close,” Calder murmured, his voice barely audible over the chaos. “Hood up, Syn.”
