Chapter 66
The dining hall of House Glint was designed for spectacle, enormous and echoing, it could have hosted a state dinner or a coronation.
The ceiling arched high overhead, its beams steel-reinforced and gilded along the edges, catching the glow of a dozen suspended light fixtures that mimicked old-world chandeliers with a sleek, modern twist. Each one hung at varying heights, casting overlapping pools of warm light across the polished marble floor.
Along one wall, towering windows stretched from floor to ceiling, the blackout drapes currently drawn open to reveal the pale shimmer of the estate’s outer grounds—dark hills, glassy walkways, and landscaped gardens silhouetted beneath the moonlight.
A long dining table, black lacquer and inlaid with subtle veins of silver, stretched down the center of the room. It could easily seat fifty, maybe more, though now it stood nearly empty save for one figure seated at its head.
The Patriarch of House Glint did not need a crowd to project authority.
Even alone, he made the vastness of the room feel intentional—like it had been built around him.
He looked to be in his late sixties, sharp-featured and still powerful in build, with the kind of aging that suggested not decline but consolidation.
His hair was a striking crimson, gone silver at the temples but still vivid through the crown, the same telltale color that marked him as kin to Sorrell.
The resemblance was most clear in the face—those sharply cut cheekbones and the uncompromising set of the mouth—but where Sorrell smirked and shrugged and spoke with the easy charm of someone who enjoyed being underestimated, his uncle looked like a man who had spent his entire life ensuring no one ever dared.
He wore a dark, tailored suit with thin crimson pinstripes, crisp and clearly custom-fitted.
The shirt beneath was black, the collar sharp, the buttons gunmetal.
No tie. No jewelry. Just a single ring of matte obsidian on one finger and a discreet smartlens clipped over his left eye, half-visible beneath the frame of sleek, rectangular glasses.
No embellishment for the sake of status—only precision and quiet power.
He didn’t rise when they entered. He didn’t speak.
He simply lifted his gaze from a thin tablet lying on the table before him, his expression unreadable as his eyes passed over Thane, then Riven, then finally landed on Sorrell.
There was no warmth in that glance—but no surprise, either. Only expectation.
Sorrell didn’t miss a beat. “Uncle. Looking as charmingly severe as ever.” His tone was light, casual, but not careless.
The words were flippant, but the incline of his head—just enough to count as a bow—was respectful in the way only someone intimately familiar with power could manage. “I brought guests.”
The Patriarch arched a single brow.
“This is Riven,” Sorrell continued, gesturing smoothly. “And Thane Virellien, though I suppose you already know that.”
“I do,” the Patriarch said. His voice was low and even, crisp as glass. “You’re bleeding on my floor.”
Thane didn’t so much as glance down. His shirt was scorched, his jaw shadowed in soot, and there was a vivid smear of dried blood trailing from the side of his temple. “It seemed more efficient than delaying with wardrobe.”
That won him a sliver of something that might’ve been amusement in the Patriarch’s eyes.
Thane stepped forward. “I won’t waste your time. A survivor of House Mecari—Yerin Mecari—is alive. He has spent the last decade hiding in the shadows, plotting, resurrecting the Hollow Hand. And he’s making his move now.”
The Patriarch didn’t blink. “Define making his move.”
“He’s already found a way inside the Virellien estate. The Hollow Hand is on its way now for a coordinated assault. I don’t know how deep the breach runs, but we need to get back there.”
Riven added quietly, “This isn’t just about Virellien. The plan was always to blame Glint if the Soulglass operation went public. If they succeed in destroying Thane’s House, the rest won’t be far behind. They’re trying to burn the old Houses down and start something new.”
Still, the Patriarch didn’t move. He regarded them with an intensity that made Riven feel like he was being measured to the gram. “And you want what, exactly? Reinforcements?”
Thane didn’t flinch. “A vehicle. And permission for Sorrell and his team to assist.”
Sorrell gave his uncle a sheepish shrug. “They made some good points. Figured you should hear them yourself.”
The silence that followed felt deep enough to fall into. Then the Patriarch leaned back in his chair, hands steepled lightly on the tabletop, gaze fixed on Thane as though trying to divine how much of this was desperation, how much was strategy.
Finally, he said, “And what does House Glint gain from aiding you?”
Riven could hardly keep the snarl off his face.
The question grated against every raw edge left in him.
They were talking about the rebirth of the Hollow Hand, a group that had already leveled cities, broken Houses, and tortured him without hesitation—and this man, this polished, calculating Patriarch, was thinking in terms of profit.
“Are you serious?” Riven snapped, his voice sharper than he meant it to be. “They’re trying to bring the Hollow Hand back from the dead and you’re asking what you get out of it?”
Across the table, the Patriarch of House Glint didn’t so much as blink. He merely tilted his head, calm as ever. “It is not crass to think strategically. Selvia would do the same in my position, would she not? It is not about greed. It is about duty. My House comes first.”
There was no bite to his tone, only a cool certainty that made Riven bristle all the more.
Thane spoke before Riven could snap again. “I understand your position, Patriarch Glint. And I won’t insult you by pretending I can offer formal guarantees. I’m not authorized to make promises on behalf of House Virellien at this time.”
The older man’s eyes narrowed slightly. Thane went on.
“But I can say this—I’ll do everything in my power to convince my mother that reigniting our alliance is not just practical, but vital. For both our Houses. For the city.”
Sorrell, who had thus far remained surprisingly restrained, leaned forward just enough to signal the shift in weight.
“And respectfully, Uncle…if Virellien falls, what chance do the rest of us have? The Hollow Hand isn’t going to stop once one House is gone.
Their entire strategy has always been to dismantle the system from the inside.
One win is all it’ll take to spark the next war. ”
For a moment, the only sound in the cavernous dining room was the distant tick of the wall clock.
Then, the Patriarch exhaled through his nose. “Only your team, Sorrell. No wider deployment. You may go with them—intervene, if necessary—but if the tide turns against you, you are to withdraw.”
“I understand,” Sorrell said simply, no hint of argument in his voice.
Thane inclined his head. “Then we’re in your debt. Thank you.”
There was something in the way he said it—steady, unflinching, blood still drying in a smear across his jaw—that made Riven pause.
For all the chaos of the last day, for all the heat and violence and broken trust, Thane still stood like he belonged here.
Authority clung to him even now, the Knife of Virellien—battle-worn, battered, and resolute.
As they turned to go, Riven glanced up and caught Thane watching him. For a heartbeat, the weight of everything between them hung unspoken. Then Thane gave a faint nod. Reassuring. Steady.
“It’s time to go home.”