Chapter 63
But before he could move, Riven stepped in front of him. “Wait.”
Thane blinked. “What—”
Riven tugged his shirt up and over his head.
It was already torn and bloodstained in places, more grime than fabric by this point.
He hooked his fingers in the hem and tore a strip free with a sharp, practiced tug.
The shirt fell back over his head as he moved in close again, the torn cloth held between his fingers.
“You’re not doing anything until I wrap that.” He reached for Thane’s arm, ignoring the flicker of surprise in Thane’s expression. “You’re not bleeding all over the place just to drop dead from sepsis after we make it out of here.”
Thane let him. Said nothing as Riven pressed the strip of fabric to the gash and wound it carefully around his forearm. The cloth darkened almost instantly, but Riven kept going, knotting it tight. His hands were steadier now. Gentle.
Thane looked down at him, lips slightly parted. Riven finished tying the cloth, then looked up—and froze.
There was something fragile in that moment, a thread stretched tight between them. Riven opened his mouth to speak, but Thane beat him to it.
He caught Riven’s wrist, just enough pressure to anchor, not to restrain. Then, in a single breathless second, he leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t soft. Riven didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. His mind went quiet the moment Thane’s mouth met his, and for one stunned heartbeat, he kissed him back like the world was on fire around them—which, if the trembling walls were any clue, it was.
Then Thane pulled back, just far enough to look into his eyes.
“Is it okay,” he asked, voice low and rough, “if I save our lives now?”
Riven blinked. His mouth was still parted. He could feel the ghost of the kiss still lingering there, like the echo of heat on skin. He managed a breathless nod.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’d appreciate that.”
Thane smiled—small and quick, but real. Then he turned toward the door and finally let the magic rise.
Thane stepped up to the door, the muscles in his back taut beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. He drew his wounded arm back, ignoring the way the bandage immediately began to stain, and with a sharp exhale, he slammed his fist forward.
The impact rang out like a thunderclap.
Riven flinched, but then his Sight flared to life, drawn to the sudden ripple of energy breaking loose.
The sigils etched into the door—once invisible—shimmered in his vision, cracks spiderwebbing through them as though made of glass.
One by one, the binding glyphs shattered, their magic dispersing in a cascade of glowing fragments that hung for a second in the air before vanishing entirely.
The door creaked.
Then with a low, reluctant groan, it swung open.
They didn’t wait. Thane led the way, ducking through the threshold and into the hall beyond, his steps already quickening. The passage was dim and narrow, walled with old concrete slick with age. At the far end, a narrow staircase climbed up into the rest of the estate.
They reached the base of it together, and Thane stopped short.
Riven barely had time to halt before nearly colliding into him. “What is it?”
He didn’t need an answer.
The smell hit him immediately—burned wood and melted stone, acrid and chemical-sharp. His throat tightened against it, and something inside him curled with dread.
“Is it—” Riven swallowed. “Is the place on fire?”
Thane glanced back, face grim and lit faintly by the reddish glow now flickering down from the top of the stairs.
“That’s a good possibility,” he said.
Above them, something cracked, followed by the low groan of shifting beams and the unmistakable roar of distant flame.
Riven stared up into the pulsing shadows and exhaled. “Great. House Virellien. Always dramatic.”
“Comes with the name.”
The ceiling gave another crackling groan. Thane reached out and took Riven’s hand—firm, unthinking—and pulled him toward the stairs.
“Let’s go.”
The fire spread faster than seemed natural. Wood cracked above them, a deep splintering sound like bones snapping. Sparks scattered through the smoke-choked air like fireflies, catching in Riven’s hair, lighting in Thane’s clothes. The heat surged with every breath.
He grabbed Riven’s wrist and hauled him forward. Smoke already filled the corridor. It stung Riven’s lungs, made his head spin. Behind them, the mural room roared with fire, flames licking out through the shattered doorway like a beast unchained.
The house creaked and shifted around them, groaning under the pressure.
Magic still clung to the walls—Riven could feel it like breath on his neck.
Watching. Waiting. They reached the landing and barreled into the front entryway.
The door stood just ahead, shadowed and ancient.
Salvation. Thane didn’t hesitate. He threw his shoulder against it once. Then again.
The door didn’t move.
“Come on—” Riven coughed, squinting through the rising smoke.
Thane slammed a palm flat against the wood. “It’s magically sealed. It’s not just old, it’s reinforced.”
Riven reached out with his Sight and saw it, threads of dark spellwork wound through the wood like veins, pulsing faintly with power. The Hollow Hand had planned this escape route too—every exit sealed, every option controlled.
“Can you break it?”
Thane didn’t respond. He just stepped back and punched.
The wood cracked beneath his fist, splinters flying—but the spell held.
He struck again. And again. Sweat ran down his face in rivers. Blood soaked through the bandage on his arm. But the enchantment pulsed, resilient and cold.
“Not fast enough,” Thane muttered, breath ragged. “This is old magic—reinforced by generations of the family. Not Yerin’s work.”
Above them, something groaned.
Riven’s head snapped up just in time to see the ceiling beam crack, its charred length buckling with a brittle sound that sliced through the roar of fire. He didn’t have time to finish his shout before it gave way.
“Thane—!”
But Thane was already moving, throwing his body into Riven and knocking him aside just as the burning timber crashed down where they’d stood. It shattered on impact, splinters and embers exploding across the floor.
They landed hard in the debris, coughing, limbs tangled. Heat seared the air around them, smoke closing in thick as a blanket.
“We’re going to die in here,” Riven whispered, barely able to hear himself over the thunder of flames.
“No.” Thane pushed upright, eyes burning through the haze. “We are not dying in this house.”
He scanned the room, gaze sharp despite the smoke. “East wing. There’s an old exit into the gardens. Long forgotten. It was never warded.”
Riven didn’t ask questions. He scrambled to his feet and followed, the floor shifting beneath them as they turned into a narrower hall. Plaster had crumbled from the ceiling; soot streaked the walls. Fire snapped at their heels, darting along the edges of the corridor.
This part of the house felt older, twisted by age and neglect. The glass in the barred windows had been shattered long ago—mere holes now, sucking in wind but doing little to fight the heat. The air here was thinner, less stifling, but it burned just the same in Riven’s lungs.
And through it all, the house still watched them—its old magic threaded through the walls, sensing them, waiting.
They pressed on, the hallway bending beneath their steps like it could collapse at any moment. Every breath scraped like glass. Riven could hardly see, eyes stinging, shoulder screaming with every movement.
Then, finally, they reached it. A narrow wooden door, almost hidden behind a collapsed shelf. Thane kicked the debris aside and shouldered into it once, twice—
Then froze.
Riven blinked through the smoke. “Why’d you stop—?”
But Thane didn’t answer. He stepped back, gaze fixed on the door as a creaking sound echoed from the other side.
The latch clicked.
And the door opened—not because of Thane’s strength, but because someone else had unlocked it from the far side.
A wave of smoke rushed out into the open air. Riven stumbled forward, dazed and coughing, one hand still caught in Thane’s. His boots struck scorched grass, brittle and black from the heat.
Cool night air hit him like a slap to the face.
They stumbled out into the open, gasping, bent with exhaustion—but they didn’t get far.
Riven barely had time to register that they were out, that they were alive—before he stopped dead.
A ring of men stood just beyond the edge of the firelight, their silhouettes stark against the night. They wore tactical combat uniforms, visors down, weapons raised. No insignias. These weren’t Hollow Hand street rats. They were trained. Disciplined. Ready.
A dozen rifles lifted in eerie unison, barrels catching the flicker of flames behind.
Thane stepped forward, shielding Riven with his body, clothes burned and torn, streaked with soot and blood. His expression was a mask of calm fury.
No one spoke; the night went still, and behind them, the house continued to burn.