Chapter 41
The city started to peel away as they drove—bright lights giving over to duller ones, clusters of bars replaced by shuttered shops and fenced-in lots, the buildings lower and more spaced out the farther they went.
Riven sat with his hands loose in his lap, his fingers twitching every so often as the silence inside the car stretched on.
The lack of conversation was starting to gnaw at him.
Lareth’s people didn’t speak. The driver and passenger had the kind of stillness that came from practiced muscle memory. Lareth himself leaned back like this was a routine pickup, like Riven was just another body added to a job that had already been decided.
It should’ve felt easy. Just another mission. But every mile deeper into the outskirts of Atlantis wound Riven’s nerves tighter.
He stared out the window, trying to mark familiar points on the horizon. Nothing. The buildings here weren’t ones he knew. The signs were tagged with unfamiliar gang sigils, and even the colors of street lighting had changed—blue halogens flickering, some blinking out entirely as they passed.
No House Virellien territory signs. No markings. No safety.
He shifted in his seat, then stilled when Lareth’s knee brushed his.
No one spoke. Not even a casual joke to break the tension. Thane would never have let this mission run like this.
And if not Thane, then the twins. At least they joked. At least Cassian would’ve filled the silence with something sharp and dirty, and Luca would’ve read the room for danger long before Riven even felt it.
Instead, he was in a borrowed role with people he didn’t know and couldn’t trust.
He flexed his fingers once before stilling them again.
Caerel’s team was supposed to be out there. Shadowing. Watching.
But the longer they drove, the harder it was to believe that anyone was still following. Riven hadn’t seen a sign of them since they left The Ember Gate. And the way Lareth talked suggested he wasn’t worried about being intercepted.
That alone made Riven’s stomach twist.
He turned to glance out the back window, catching a glimpse of dark shapes slipping by, streetlamps growing sparser.
The city was fading into its underlayers.
Industrial zones, warehousing districts, old parts of Atlantis that never quite got rebuilt after the last wave of magical upheaval.
The kinds of places people went to disappear.
Or to be disappeared.
The tension in Riven’s shoulders had turned to a slow-burning ache.
He reached up, pinched the bridge of his nose for a second, then let out a soft breath. He could do this. He’d been in worse spots. Outnumbered, wounded, alone—he’d survived all of it. He just had to keep thinking, keep assessing, keep moving.
He just had to play it right until Caerel’s people made a move.
Unless they weren’t going to. Unless he was really alone.
He swallowed hard and told himself it didn’t matter.
He’d wanted answers. He’d wanted to know who was moving this purified Soulglass, who was backing Lareth’s crew, if it tied back to the Hollow Hand or—his gut turned—to House Glint.
And he’d get those answers. Even if he had to walk into hell to find them.
Even if he had to do it alone.
The farther they drove, the more wrong it all felt.
It wasn’t just the isolation, or the fact that the buildings gave way to long, skeletal stretches of road lit only by the occasional failing streetlamp.
It was the way everything quieted—like the city itself didn’t want to see what was happening out here.
The streets were empty. No cars. No pedestrians.
No sounds except the low thrum of the engine and the occasional crackle of static from the front radio that no one bothered to respond to.
Riven kept his expression carefully bored, but his mind was racing.
The last message had been nearly an hour ago—a curt acknowledgment that they were still in position.
Since then, silence. He couldn’t risk reaching out now, not with Lareth this close, not with strangers on either side of him probably keyed in to every twitch and glance.
So he sat still, legs slightly apart, the heel of his boot pressed against the hidden case in his sock, where the syringe sat waiting.
He tried again. “So this supplier of yours,” Riven said, keeping his tone casual, “they local? Or just new to town?”
Lareth didn’t glance at him. “Does it matter?”
Riven shrugged. “Seems like people would notice a whole new product hitting the streets. A purified blend? That kind of innovation usually comes with a name.”
No response. Not even from the goon in the passenger seat.
“Guessing they’ve got some protection then,” Riven pressed. “Someone who can make the Houses look the other way?”
Lareth finally looked at him, but it wasn’t to answer. Just a flat, mildly curious glance that said, Why are you still talking?
“Relax,” he said at last. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”
The way he said it didn’t feel promising. It felt like a door shutting.
The road curved, then flattened. Riven leaned slightly forward, catching sight of something up ahead—one massive freight transport truck, parked just off the road’s edge, half in shadow. Its lights were off. No engines running. It was the only thing in sight.
The driver pulled up alongside it and killed the engine.
Lareth clapped him on the shoulder and nodded toward the back. “Showtime.”
The two men from the front exited first, and Riven slid out after Lareth.
The air smelled like rust and engine oil and something acrid beneath it, like the ghosts of old fires.
Weeds pushed through cracks in the pavement, the highway quiet enough that Riven could hear the sound of his own breathing.
He darted a look around. No other cars. No backup. No one watching from the ridgelines or from the darkened hills beyond. No Virellien team.
He tried to hide the tension tightening his spine. Maybe Caerel was being careful. Maybe they were still here, cloaked, keeping their distance. But it didn’t feel like it. And Lareth’s people weren’t acting like it either.
They flanked the truck easily, confidently—one on each side of the cargo bay, guns drawn and kept low. Not raised, but not holstered either.
Riven frowned. “That necessary?”
Lareth chuckled behind him. “You know how it is. Gotta stay careful. This much product draws attention. Thieves, competitors, some House brat looking to make a name. We don’t take chances.”
Riven tried to smile like he agreed, even as his blood chilled. “Right. Cautious.”
He stepped toward the cargo latch and paused, fingers resting lightly on the metal. One more glance around. Still quiet.
With a breath, Riven unlatched the cargo door and pulled it open with a metallic screech that split the silence.
He expected crates. Bags. Something industrial and heavy with promise. Instead, there was nothing. Just the open blackness of the truck’s interior. And then movement, a figure emerging from the dark, raised gun aimed squarely at Riven’s chest.
He froze, his eyes taking a moment to adjust and then recognition slammed into him.
Kieran. Of all people—of all places—Kieran.
A smirk played at the edge of the man’s mouth, but his eyes were hard, focused. “Fancy seeing you here.”