Chapter 73
The hidden staircase descended in a tight, circular coil, the stone steps slick with condensation and worn down by the passage of centuries.
The further they went, the more the air changed—still and cold and old in a way that pressed down on Riven’s lungs.
The kind of stillness that spoke of secrets never meant to be unearthed.
Faint blue ward-lights lit their path, embedded in the walls like veins of energy, pulsing slowly with a rhythm that seemed to echo beneath the skin. Riven glanced at Thane’s face—set, pale, and drawn with a focused tension that bordered on dread.
The spiral gave way to a narrow corridor, straight and quiet as a tomb.
Here the air thickened further with magic, the very stones humming with the weight of powerful, ancient protections.
The silence stretched oppressively between them, and Riven’s hand rested on the hilt of his blade as they moved forward.
At the end of the hall stood a door.
It was different from the others they had passed in the estate—taller, older, carved from dark stone that shimmered with wardings etched deep into its surface.
The symbols glowed faintly, alive to Riven’s half-elven senses, flickering in and out of visibility like candlelight behind sheer curtains.
They were nothing like the House’s modern security sigils—these were older, deeper, more primal.
Riven reached out instinctively, stopping just shy of touching them.
Thane stood before the door with a look Riven had never seen on him before—not fear, but something close.
Reverence mixed with resignation. He touched a section of the carvings with the tips of his fingers.
The runes pulsed beneath his touch, sensing his bloodline, and began to unwind themselves like threads in a tapestry being undone.
The door unsealed with a low rumble.
A hush of air rushed past them as the pressure equalized, followed by the quiet creak of hinges. The door didn’t swing open—it withdrew, revealing the chamber beyond.
They stepped inside.
The space was circular, domed high above and set with stonework so intricate it might have been mistaken for art.
The walls were lined with ancient tomes, arcane instruments, scrolls that glowed faintly with preservation glyphs.
And signs of a struggle—broken vials, shattered crystal, scorch marks blackening the stone floor. The aftermath of recent magic.
Bodies lay on the floor. Not many—just enough to make Riven’s stomach clench. Three of them bore the insignia of the Matriarch’s personal guard.
And at the center of the room stood three figures.
Yerin saw them and sighed, loud and theatrical. “I should’ve known you two would weasel your way out of that trap. Should’ve packed more voltage.”
Beside him, Caerel stiffened. His knuckles whitened around the grip of the gun pressed to the Matriarch’s temple. Riven didn’t miss the way his body angled slightly away from Thane—as if distance might spare him.
He turned to Yerin, wild-eyed. “You said he was dead.”
Thane stepped forward, slow and steady. His presence felt heavier than the magic in the walls. “Why?” he asked Caerel flatly. “Why betray the House you served all these years?”
It was the Matriarch who answered, her voice brittle with contempt. “The answer’s always the same. Greed. He’s been waist-deep in the Soulglass trade, and thought no one would notice.”
Yerin rolled his eyes. “Gods, shut her up. Kill the bitch already. I’m sick of listening to her.”
Caerel hesitated. “We need her—”
“No,” Yerin said, casual and certain. “Now we have Thane.”
Caerel’s hand trembled. He looked at Thane again, and something inside him seemed to break. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he said, barely audible. “This wasn’t the plan.”
Yerin’s mouth curled in disgust. “You really are as spineless as I thought.”
He stepped toward Caerel to take the gun.
Riven moved.
With practiced precision, he drew a blade from his belt and let it fly. It flew cleanly, silently hit Yerin square in the side, just beneath the ribs.
Yerin staggered back with a snarl, hand snapping to the hilt embedded in his side. Blood bloomed across his tailored coat. The gun fell from Caerel’s hand as he backed away, stunned.
Thane was already closing the distance, his blade out, every inch of him lethal.
Caerel dropped to his knees. “Wait—wait, please,” he said, raising his hands. “I didn’t know—I didn’t think he’d—”
Yerin yanked the knife from his own body, his face twisting in fury. “Shut up.”
With vicious speed, he hurled the blood-slicked blade.
It struck Caerel dead center in the chest. He jerked back like a puppet with its strings cut, then crumpled to the floor, unmoving.
The silence that followed rang louder than any explosion.
Yerin exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as he met Thane’s gaze. “You ruin everything.” He smiled, blood running down his side. “Let’s finish it.”