How many witches had walked this path? How many had walked back up? Why were the undertunnels even necessary in an arena built for fun, unless it’d been built for something else long before that? There were five hundred years of history and violence in this arena. Five hundred years of secrets and escapes.
Water dripped somewhere in the darkness. Each drop counted off seconds like a funeral bell.
The guard stopped at a metal door. “You get your own cell. The other two share.”
Cell. Not room.
He unlocked it, and I stepped inside. Stone walls wept moisture that gathered in dark stains. The floor was cold enough to leech warmth through my boots. The provisions were almost nonexistent. A cot with a blanket so thin it was more suggestion than comfort. A bucket in the corner that reeked of piss and despair. A single candle on a shelf, already burning, wax pooling like tears.
“Someone will bring food,” the guard said, “probably.”
The door shut. The lock turned.
And I was suddenly alone with what I’d done.
I sat on the cot, and the weight of it crashed down like a collapsing building. Twenty-seven years of hiding, shattered ina single moment of desperate foolishness. Tomorrow, I’d face two other witches in some trial designed to leave only one of us standing.
Katarina, who already hated me. And some girl whose name I didn’t even know. One of us would survive.
Two would not.
By taking a single step forward, I’d decided Vitoria’s life was more precious than theirs. She was more important. They were nothing more than unfortunate losses on the road to my best friend’s salvation.
Somewhere above, thousands of people were probably placing bets. Which volunteer would last longest? Which would die first? Who would beg?
But also somewhere up there, I knew Silas circled the arena. His fury had cooled to something infinitely worse. Disappointment.
I pressed through the bond, though I never knew if he could actually understand me. He came when I beckoned, left when I dismissed him. Nothing more than that.
His response was silence. Not the comfortable quiet we sometimes shared. The kind that said I’d broken something fundamental between us. And my heart ached over that. I’d betrayed him.
Time crawled. Each minute stretched into eternity. The candle burned lower, casting weaker light, and still the weight in my chest grew heavier. What had I done? What had I actually, truly done?
Then footsteps in the corridor. Heavy. Deliberate. Multiple sets.
The lock turned.
Calder entered first, and relief flooded through me until I saw who followed. Three hunters. Two I didn’t recognize, both sharpand eager, the kind who volunteered for extra shifts. The third made my stomach drop.
Wickett filled the doorway. Those gray eyes noting everything with predatory focus. The cell. The cot. The candle. Me. When his gaze finally settled on my face, something electric passed between us. Hatred. Challenge. Something that made my pulse stutter.
“You have five minutes,” Calder said to them. Not asking. Telling. “Then you leave.”
The tallest hunter stepped forward. Older than Wickett, younger than Tiberius. He looked between Calder and me, calculating odds I didn’t want to think about.
“The Heartless One plays protector now?”
“I protect what’s mine.” Calder’s voice was flat. Dangerous. “Five minutes.”
The youngest hunter pulled something from his pocket. Small. Metallic. When he opened his palm, I saw a coin. Silver, with runes carved into both sides that seemed to writhe in the candlelight.
“Do you know what this is, witch?”
I shook my head.
“It’s a death marker. We give them to witnesses. So they remember what happens when witches forget their place.” He set it on the shelf beside the candle with deliberate ceremony. “Tomorrow, you’ll face your own kind. But eventually, if you survive, you’ll hunt the Phoenix.”
The casual certainty of it made bile rise in my throat.
