Syneca looked up from where she sat on the edge of her bed, wearing one of two uniforms that had been left folded outside each of our doors before the sun rose. With pressed shoulders, long pants, perfectly sewn gold buttons and a ‘V’ surrounded by dragons embroidered on the chest, my father had, once again, made a spectacle of us all. And while each of the other uniforms was sharp, black and striking, except for the shifter’s oversized pants, he left Syneca in green. He’d meant to make a target of the witch, but somehow it just made those blue eyes brighter.
“All of us?” she asked.
“All of us.”
Much to my surprise, no one argued. Even the little sprite, who’d clearly replaced the buttons on her uniform with something brighter, flew behind us, silent and compliant. Perhaps they were learning.
We crossed the dew-soaked lawn from Chancellery House in a perfect line. Dawn had broken fully now, purple light filtering through the haze that hung over this part of the city. Other hunters moved between buildings with purpose, their routines as predictable as clockwork.
Beyond the manicured lawn, the street was waking up. A lycan in a wrinkled suit jacket checked his pocket watch and broke into a run, nearly colliding with a baker’s apprentice carrying a tray of still-steaming rolls. Sprites zipped overhead in colorful streaks, delivering early morning messages with the kind of manic energy only courier work required at this hour.
A shopkeeper yawned while unlocking her door. Nearby, someone shouted about being late for a factory shift. The city moved at two speeds, those still rubbing sleep from their eyes and those who’d already missed their chance to be on time.
Soon the administrative department staff would be reporting for work, and the yard would fill with those waiting to go through the arch, but for now, it was relatively quiet.
“Your hunters are competent,” Calder said quietly as we walked.
“They know what they’re doing.” I kept my tone neutral, though something about his phrasing felt like a test.
“And loyal,” Syneca added. “To you or to the Magistrate?”
I glanced at her. “Does it matter?”
“It might.”
At the compound entrance, the guards waved through Calder and Pip with respectful nods. But when Syneca approached the first guard, Bracken pointed behind her to the Arch of Veresear about ten feet back. “Witch protocol. Go through the arch. Full search. Surrender all magical implements.”
I watched her spine straighten, pride and defiance in every line of her body. Most witches cowered when confronted. She faced them as an equal.
“I’m not carrying any,” she said evenly.
“Then you won’t mind the Arch.”
“I mind the principle.” Her voice stayed level, but I caught the edge underneath. “I’m oath-bound to the same hunt as the rest of them. Or does bureaucracy matter more than catching the Phoenix?”
The guard’s face hardened. “Go through the Arch, or you don’t enter.”
She paused just long enough for me to wonder why she would suddenly be reluctant today, especially because I knew from reading her entire file last night that she’d passed under that arch daily.
“You walk through, or the Magistrate will deliver your punishment personally.”
The hunt needed all members functional. Personal feelings aside, losing a team member to power plays weakened our position. And my father was undoubtedly watching this entire exchange.
“She’s oath-bound,” I said flatly, stepping forward. “This supersedes anything the damned arch could find. She’ll kill the Phoenix all the same. And then I’ll kill her.”
The guard looked uncertain now, caught between protocol and my direct challenge. My father’s voice boomed from within the building, amplified by magic until it echoed across the entire courtyard. “Let my son learn the price of vouching for a witch. Either she enters naked, to prove she carries nothing, or she goes back through the Arch. Those are the only choices.”
Public humiliation. My jaw tightened, not from concern for the witch, but from being used as a lesson in front of half the compound. He was making me choose, forcing me either to back down or commit fully to defending her.
I turned to Syneca, keeping my voice cold and calculated. “Walk through. Don’t be stubborn.”
She met my eyes, and I saw the war happening behind hers. Pride versus pragmatism. Self-respect versus survival.
“A partial surrender often satisfies authority while preserving one’s real strength,” I added quietly, letting her hear the strategic logic underneath.
Something shifted in her expression. Understanding, maybe. Or resignation.
She walked through the arch.
