Something in his eyes, in that wicked smile and politician stature, told me it was. He’d gotten his hands on a fire witch, and that was all he needed.
Vitoria. My best friend. The closest thing to a sibling I’d ever know. The wild one with fire in her soul but also in her heart. She was ours. Not theirs. This world could condemn everyone else. But not her.
I took a deep breath, closing my eyes to combat the sadness pouring over me. But all I could see was her face. Hear her cries. Imagine her fear. She’d have fought for sure, but against a hordeof hunters? Against the Ripper? At this point, it’d be a miracle if she were still alive in a city that burned her face to memory. She couldn’t hold the nymph form forever, and she didn’t drink blood. Eventually, someone would see the discrepancy there. So, I lifted my chin, widened my stance, and prepared. Whatever it took.
Now and always.
Drums began a steady beat as each selected race was presented to the crowd.
The Magistrate’s theater. A show, and nothing more.
The hunters emerged from the north tunnel across from us in perfect unison. Beautiful beasts of various types at their sides, all plucked from the Ash and beaten into submission to their masters. If I wasn’t fucking angry before, those beastly faces were enough to solidify it. I knew each of them. I’d broken into the kennels many times to form a careful bond. But this display of dominance over them sickened me.
The silver scarring across the hunters’ bare chests stole every eye in the arena. They were kills carved into skin, filled with molten metal that would never fade. Trophies written in flesh; a tally of their sins.
The first two moved with high steps. Disciplined. Eager.
Then Wickett stepped into the light.
Sound died.
Silver covered both arms almost completely, wrist to shoulder, so dense the scarring had become armor. His chest was the same. The Ripper. The man who never missed, never failed, never hesitated. He moved like a predator to the blue section, andFuries,he was beautiful. Beautiful and dangerous and absolutely controlled. But his eyes... His eyes swept every section except ours.
The crowd. The platform. The other hunters. Sprites. Shifters. Even the purple dragon soaring above the arena.Anywhere but the red-lit tunnels where three witches stood waiting. The avoidance was deliberate. Obvious. Like we didn’t exist at all. He positioned himself with the other hunters, finally still, and kept his gaze fixed on Tiberius. Focused and utterly terrifying. But I was tired of giving them the power to make me small. To make me cower. I was tired of being hunted. And a witch could only take so much before she broke.
Wings erupted from the east tunnel in a storm of color and light. Sprites filled the air in formation, dozens, maybe hundreds. Rainbow fragments scattered as they caught the sun, and the crowd gasped.
Pip led the swarm, blue hair woven with silver thread that sparkled. Behind her, barely visible among the wings, flew the one they called Wither. His green hair was long and tied back handsomely, mimicking the Magistrate’s severe style. The third little sprite, whose name I’d forgotten, looked terrified. Her whole body shook, wings beating irregular patterns, but she held formation.
The three volunteers claimed the silver section, wings humming in collective fear. Except for Pip. Whatever the blue sprite was on, she seemed to be eating up the attention. Waving to the crowd, zipping around as tiny embers of light trailed her, all of her necklaces and trinkets gleaming in the dappled sunlight.
If it weren’t innocent joy, I’d loathe her for it. But I’m not sure she realized what was about to happen. That her friends there beside her would have to fall victim to that tiny sword at her hip or the trials themselves in order for her to make it out of this alive. But still I watched her, soaking in the last vestiges of true happiness. Because after this day, everything that little sprite found joy in would be tainted with blood. Or she’d die. Simple as that.
From the south came growls. Low. Threatening. A warning that walked on two legs. Shifters moved, partially transformed in a calculated display of controlled violence.Look,they said without words;we command the beast. We choosewhento be human.Muscles rippled beneath skin that couldn’t decide if it was flesh or fur. Claws extended and retracted. Eyes that belonged to predators tracked would-be prey in the stands.
Lucette Varrow walked among them fully human, but her stillness held more menace than any fang or claw. It seemed like the grief from her brother’s murder had honed her into something sharp. Something waiting. She stared at the crowd with eyes that promised to remember every face that dared pity her. A kernel of respect grew within me for that kind of conviction. I’d turn her to ash if she dared touch my family, but, for this single second, I could respect her.
The shifters filled the brown section as the chants and cheers became deafening. People placed the bets, picked their champions, screamed the names of those they favored. The hunt for Vitoria had become a sport, and within a week, the entire world would know about it.
My gaze found Katarina. She stood rigid, fists clenched against her sides, staring into the crowd as if its roar could swallow her whole. Then I realized what had happened. How we got here.
The truth.
Every purple shadow beneath her eyes, the split lip and new bruises told the same story. They’d beaten her until she named another fire witch they could condemn for the Magistrate’s show. One to slaughter, one to blame. Vitoria had been betrayed for Katarina’s survival.
The rage should have consumed me. Should have sent me across this tunnel with murder in mind. Instead, somethingcolder settled in my chest—a hollow understanding. When pain becomes your only reality, survival wins.
Even over loyalty.
But knowing why didn’t make Vitoria any less of a victim here. And it didn’t make me hate Katarina any less for breathing. It just made me see her through a veil of understanding... and anger.
We were next.
With one step out of the mouth of the tunnel, the music stopped, and the crowd fell silent once more. Not the comfortable quiet of anticipation. The thick, suffocating silence of hatred manifested. Thousands of voices died as we crossed the grassy arena floor. No cheers. No bets were shouted between strangers. Just judgment. They watched us the way children watched shadows moving beneath their beds. With the knowledge that monsters were real, and three of them were walking toward the red section of the sphere.
It didn’t matter that I was a Rune Weaver. It didn’t matter that the third witch was hardly an adult. It didn’t matter that we were someone’s daughter or sister or friend.
Tessa, the other fire witch, the one here to remind everyone what fire would do to this world, stumbled slightly. One to slaughter, one to blame, I repeated in my mind. This was fucking wrong. And she’d die today. The Magistrate would see to that. Always a strategy. Always a show.
