Chapter 68
The closer they got to the Virellien estate, the more Riven’s nerves prickled. Shadows bent at unnatural angles in the moonlight, the silence pressing too tight against his ears. His boots made no sound, but it felt like every step echoed somewhere deeper—somewhere they hadn’t yet reached.
He drew in beside Thane, lowering his voice to a whisper barely audible over the rustle of night wind and distant creak of Glint gear.
“Thane,” he said, eyes scanning the dark line of the estate wall up ahead, “you remember what Yerin said, right? About having help. Inside help. That’s how he got in.”
Thane didn’t look at him, gaze fixed forward. “I remember,” he said, voice low and hard, leaving no room for comfort. “I just don’t want to think about it right now.”
Riven swallowed, nodded. “Could’ve been a lie.”
Thane didn’t respond. Just a grunt. But it didn’t sound convinced.
“If it was true,” Riven went on, still keeping his voice hushed, “if someone did betray you—betray the House…”
Thane cut him off before he could finish. “Then they’ll pray for death,” he said, his voice stripped of anything human, “long before it comes.”
“Hey.” Sorrell’s voice sliced through the tension. “Maybe let’s table the murder whispers until we’re not ten feet from a likely ambush, yeah?”
Riven held the pistol in both hands, his fingers tight on the grip not from confidence, but caution. It wasn’t that the Glint-issued weapon was unfamiliar—he’d handled guns before—but something about this one made his palms sweat. The heaviness of it. The weight of knowing he’d need it.
He didn’t trust himself to holster it. Not when his heart was pounding so hard it might shake the thing loose. Better to hold on tight and not give it the chance.
Ahead of him, the others moved in tense silence, boots muffled against the grass, weapons low and eyes sharp. They weren’t talking anymore. The air was too thick for that—like every breath carried a charge, every second stretching into the unknown.
The estate walls loomed higher now, a clean white-gray in the moonlight, as if untouched by the chaos that had unfolded inside. But Riven knew better. The silence was wrong. The kind that came after violence, not before.
They reached the gate.
Without hesitation, Thane stepped forward. In a few swift, practiced motions, he scaled the wrought-iron structure like it was nothing more than a fence at the end of a garden. He crouched at the top, surveying the interior. Then he dropped down, landing with a muffled thud.
“It’s clear,” Thane called back softly. “Come over.”
Sorrell went next, graceful and efficient. The Glint soldiers followed, disciplined, no wasted movement. Riven hesitated. The pistol made climbing awkward, but he wasn’t letting go of it.
He slung it carefully around to his back, fingers already sweaty as he grabbed the iron rungs and started up. His boots scraped faintly. The metal was cold under his palms. At the top, the drop seemed farther than it was, shadows pooling like oil at the base.
“Don’t think about it,” he muttered to himself.
He pushed off.
His landing was rough—knees jarring, balance just barely held, the knee still a bit tender even after Vexa’s healing—but before he could stumble, a hand caught his arm, steadying him.
Thane.
It should have irritated him—being caught like that, like he needed help—but instead the touch sent a subtle wave of calm through his chest.
“Thanks,” Riven muttered, brushing it off like it was nothing.
Thane gave no reply, just nodded once and turned back toward the estate.
The silence on this side of the wall was different. Heavier.
Riven drew the pistol back into his grip, holding it properly now. The tension that had been slowly coiling since they left House Glint was thick in his throat. This was it. Whatever they were walking into—traitors, Soulglass-fueled killers, ghosts from Thane’s past—there was no turning back.
The grounds of the Virellien estate were too quiet at first, a stillness that belied the chaos Riven knew had to be unfolding just beyond the walls.
But as they crept deeper across the open property—skirting the fountain-lined walkway, passing ornamental hedges trimmed to perfection—faint sounds began to rise.
Muffled shouts. The low bark of gunfire.
The muted whine of magic building and discharging.
The Hollow Hand was inside.
Thane’s pace quickened, each step calculated and confident.
He veered left of the main path, motioning for the others to follow him off the gravel and into the shadowed hedge line.
“There’s a staff entrance this way,” he murmured without looking back.
“Concealed. It’s old. Hopefully they don’t know about it. ”
They followed without question. Sorrell fell into step beside Riven, his usual glibness gone. Every movement was precise now, his focus trained forward like a laser. The Glint soldiers flanked them, silent and professional.
The door Thane led them to was low and narrow, tucked between a jut of brickwork and a retaining wall.
From the outside it looked like an unimportant utility panel—something you wouldn’t give a second glance.
But Thane produced a key from his belt and slid it into the rusted lock. It turned with a reluctant click.
They slipped inside.
The corridor beyond was narrow and windowless, the walls painted a drab cream that did nothing to disguise its age.
Pipes lined the ceiling in a twisting maze, and the air was warm and slightly metallic.
Riven had never been down here before. This wasn’t the elegant part of the house—the grand halls, the mirrored staircases, the carved doorframes and LED-lit alcoves.
But a circular window in the next door gave him a glimpse of that world.
Through it, he saw the estate’s kitchen—bright and stainless, counters gleaming, its surfaces unmarred by the violence just outside its walls.
It looked like a showroom version of itself, eerily still, as if the staff had simply vanished mid-shift.
No one was in the hallway. Their footsteps sounded too loud in the quiet, even as they tried to tread lightly. But with every step, the noise from deeper within the estate intensified—the thud of boots, the rasp of shouting, the echo of something breaking.
Thane turned and raised a hand, slowing them to a stop.
“Be ready for anything ahead,” he said, voice low and even. “Our first priority is the Matriarch. After that, Yerin.”
Even in the dim corridor, Riven caught the flicker of tension behind Thane’s eyes. Not fear—Thane didn’t fear like normal people—but something colder. Controlled.
Sorrell adjusted the grip on his rifle and asked, “And if we run into Hollow Hand agents on the way?”
Thane looked at him.
Sorrell blinked. “Okay. Stupid question.”
The Glint soldiers gave tight nods and checked their gear, pumping their rifles in quick, efficient motions.
The sound echoed off the walls, final and sharp.
Riven’s hands tightened around his pistol again, and now it wasn’t nerves—it was instinct.
His heart had started to thunder in his chest, blood rushing in his ears louder than the growing conflict beyond.
This wasn’t practice. This wasn’t some undercover job, some heist, some clever game of pretend.
This was war.
And now they entered the lion’s den.