Chapter 72
As they moved deeper into the estate, the sounds of fighting grew more distant, replaced by a tense, unnatural quiet that pressed in on all sides.
The marble floors gleamed beneath their feet, untouched here—too untouched.
Riven kept close behind Thane, pistol still in hand, every muscle tight with anticipation.
Thane spoke without turning. “There’s one place I can think of where Caerel might’ve taken her.
Unfortunately, it’s also the easiest place to set a trap if there’s an insider.
” His voice was grim. “The old ceremonial chamber beneath the ancestral wing. It’s isolated, shielded. No panic room, but defensible.”
Riven’s brows knit. “You really think Caerel would risk bringing her there?”
“I think if he’s counting on inside knowledge, it’s the perfect place. And Kieran being part of this only makes me more certain.” Thane slowed to a halt at the end of the corridor, glancing around the next bend like he already knew what waited. “This is the path that leads to it.”
He turned to Riven, his expression cold and detached, as if bracing himself for something. “Listen to me. Whatever happens beyond this point…if I tell you to run, you run.”
Riven stared at him. “Thane—”
“I’m serious.” Thane’s voice cut through the dim hallway like a blade. “You don’t argue. You don’t hesitate. You run.”
Riven’s grip tightened on the pistol. “You know I’ve never been good at following orders I don’t like.”
Thane’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “Then get good at it. Because I want you alive.”
For a breath, neither of them moved. Just the two of them in the corridor, the silence thick with things left unsaid.
Then Thane turned back toward the bend and started forward. And Riven followed.
They didn’t get far.
Just beyond the bend, in a stretch of hallway lit only by emergency fixtures flickering low and red, Riven saw a smear of blood first—then the figure slumped against the wall. Asterian.
Thane was already moving, dropping to his knees beside his brother, one hand braced on Asterian’s shoulder, the other checking the wound at his abdomen. Blood soaked through the fine fabric of his shirt, pooling beneath him. His breathing was shallow, labored.
Asterian’s eyes fluttered open at Thane’s touch. When he saw who it was, a faint, hoarse laugh escaped him. “I should’ve known you weren’t dead. Too damned stubborn.”
Thane’s jaw tightened, but the corners of his mouth quirked faintly. “Did I ruin your day?”
“Little bit.” Asterian coughed, winced. “Thought I’d finally get the office.”
Riven hovered just behind them, tension twisting in his chest. This was how brothers talked in House Virellien, he realized—sharp-edged and soaked in blood.
Thane pressed harder on the wound, trying to stem the bleeding. “Where is she? Where’s Mother?”
Asterian’s head leaned back against the wall, throat tight with pain. “Caerel’s taken her…toward the vault. I tried to stop him. One of the guards turned—stabbed me, dumped me here like garbage.” He gritted his teeth. “Didn’t even get a chance to gut the bastard.”
Thane’s face was still, unreadable. Riven knelt beside him. “What do we do? We can’t just leave him.”
But Asterian’s hand shot out, grabbing Thane’s forearm. His grip was weak, but his voice was strong with fury. “Go. Go before she ends up dead. You want to make it right? Do something right for once in your cursed life.”
Thane’s eyes flickered, something raw beneath the surface, but he nodded. Slowly, he rose and tapped his comm. “Sorrell. We’ve found Asterian. Bad abdominal wound—he’s bleeding out. Sending you a ping now. If you have medics to spare, we need them.”
“Copy,” came Sorrell’s voice, crisp but tense. “We’ll divert. Hold tight.”
Thane looked down at Asterian one last time. “Don’t die. I’m not letting you steal martyrdom from me too.”
Asterian grunted something between a laugh and a cough. “Just go.”
Thane turned, and Riven followed, heart hammering, the echo of Asterian’s bloodied resolve burning in his ears.
The Matriarch’s private quarters loomed at the end of the hall, silent and still behind an intricately carved door. Even now, the wood shimmered faintly with old protective magics, none of them active. The wards were down. All of them.
Thane slowed as they approached. “The entrance to the vault is through there. Hidden behind the north wall of her dressing room.”
Riven opened his mouth to ask how they were getting in when a blur of movement shot out from the shadows to their left.
Thane twisted just in time to avoid a blade slicing for his ribs, but the second knife caught him across the bicep, slicing through his coat with a flash of blood.
The attacker was fast—smaller than Thane, armored in House Virellien black with no visible insignia, and wielding twin blades that flickered with faint enchantments.
Before Thane could retaliate, the attacker lunged again, a whirlwind of knives aimed at his throat.
Riven moved without thinking.
He slammed into Thane, knocking him backward and out of reach just as one of the blades cut through the air where his neck had been. Riven drew his own knife, shifting to meet the oncoming strike. Steel rang against steel.
The impact jolted through his bones, but he stayed standing, using his smaller frame to duck under a wide sweep and retaliate with a sharp jab toward the attacker’s side. It was blocked—but only just.
The assassin grunted and turned on him fully.
They clashed.
Riven barely had time to breathe. The rhythm was vicious, fast, a dance of inches and instinct.
Every strike came fast and clean—slashes meant to kill, not disable.
Riven ducked a cut aimed at his temple, countered with a low strike toward the knee.
Dodged again. Parried. Slipped sideways, barely avoiding a blade meant for his ribs.
The other man was good. Trained. But Riven was faster.
“Riven—” Thane started, already pushing upright.
“Stay back!” Riven snapped, breathless but certain. His blade locked with one of the attacker’s, their faces inches apart, and he snarled, “He’s mine.”
It wasn’t pride. It was necessity. There wasn’t time for distractions—not if they were this close to the Matriarch.
The assassin tried to knee him, but Riven twisted out of the way and let his momentum carry him into a pivot, blade flashing.
He caught the other man’s shoulder—a shallow cut, but enough to slow him.
Another swing, parried. Another dodge, too close.
One of the twin knives nicked his cheek.
The burn was sharp, blood hot down his jaw, but he didn’t falter.
Focus.
He stepped in close. Close enough to smell blood and sweat and the faint reek of Soulglass on the other man’s breath.
Their knives clashed again, the metal ringing out like a bell as they struggled in close quarters.
Riven gritted his teeth, twisted his wrist, and managed to knock one blade from the attacker’s grip.
The man retaliated instantly, slashing with the second knife—and Riven was a half-beat too slow.
Pain lanced down his side. Shallow, not fatal. But it threw him off just enough.
The assassin surged forward.
Riven dropped to one knee and let the strike pass over his head. Then he came up under it with his off-hand dagger and drove it upward with every ounce of strength he had.
The blade punched through the man’s throat. His eyes went wide. He staggered back, clutching at the wound—but it was already too late. Blood poured down his armor in a flood. He collapsed against the wall and slid down, dead before he hit the floor.
Riven stood there, panting hard, staring at the body. His side ached. His cheek throbbed. But he was alive.
Behind him, Thane approached silently, gaze flicking to the corpse, then to Riven.
Together, they turned to the Matriarch’s chamber door.
Thane placed his palm against a section of the marble wall beside it, whispering something in Old Elvish. The panel shifted, and with a low mechanical click, a hidden seam opened. The wall slid aside.
A narrow stone staircase was revealed, descending into shadow.
Riven wiped the blood from his dagger on his sleeve and followed Thane down.