Chapter 75
Riven sprinted forward driven by instinct, fear, and something deeper—love, maybe, or something just as desperate. He caught Thane’s wrist mid-swing, stopping the crushing blow inches above the Matriarch’s unconscious body.
“Thane,” he gasped, gripping tight. “Don’t.”
Thane’s head snapped toward him with a snarl, and Riven barely had time to brace before he was tackled to the ground, the full weight of Thane’s body slamming into him like a falling wall.
The air exploded from his lungs as they hit the cold stone, his bones rattling from the impact.
Thane’s hands clawed for purchase, seeking flesh, seeking damage.
They rolled, fists and elbows and knees catching on ribs and shoulders. Riven twisted, shoved, fought not to win but just to survive. He knew Thane could kill him without trying—but some part of Thane had to be in there. It had to be.
“Thane!” he choked out, even as he scrambled back across the floor, distancing himself. “It’s me. It’s me. Look at me.”
Thane snarled again, but it faltered—just slightly. His head jerked in a twitchy, animal way.
Riven’s chest heaved. He could barely feel his ribs. His lip was split. His hands trembled from adrenaline and fear. But he kept his eyes locked on Thane’s.
“You don’t want to do this,” he said, softer now, hoarse. “You know me. You know my voice.”
Thane crouched, breathing like a predator poised to strike, but his fingers flexed with hesitation.
Riven swallowed hard, heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted to break free.
“I know you’re in there. And I know you don’t want to hurt me.”
Silence.
Then Thane growled, low and rumbling, and launched forward again—this time slower, more uncertain, like some part of him was fighting it.
And Riven didn’t run. He didn’t flinch. He stood his ground.
Thane’s body jerked as the Soulglass surged through him again, a violent twitch in his muscles telegraphing what came next. With a roar, he seized Riven by the throat, lifting him bodily from the ground like he weighed nothing at all.
Riven’s boots kicked uselessly in the air, his fingers clawing at Thane’s wrist, trying to pry it loose.
Nothing budged. Thane’s grip was like iron, his eyes wild and vacant—no recognition, no mercy.
Stars burst behind Riven’s vision as the lack of oxygen burned through his chest. Panic scrambled his thoughts.
Too strong—
His fingers fumbled, half-blind, diving into the inside pocket of his jacket. His lungs screamed, darkness crowding the edges of his vision.
There.
The syringe was smooth and cold against his palm, the plastic fragile compared to the crushing pressure on his windpipe. He couldn’t get close enough.
Riven swung, wrapping his legs around Thane’s waist, locking his ankles behind him and hauling his own body inward, closer, close enough that he could feel the shudder of Thane’s ragged breathing against his chest.
With what little strength he had left, he drove the needle into Thane’s side. The plunger depressed with a soft click, and the serum emptied into Thane’s bloodstream.
Thane’s grip didn’t loosen right away.
It tightened.
Riven’s vision began to tunnel, edges going soft and dark as pain spiked in his skull.
His lungs burned. Thane’s eyes—still wide, still empty—stared through him, not at him.
There was no hesitation in them, no flicker of restraint.
Just cold, mechanical violence, like watching a storm bear down with no chance to stop it.
The pressure built. Riven’s fingers spasmed, the syringe falling from his hand and clattering to the floor, useless now.
This is it, he thought distantly. This is how it ends.
And then—
A flicker of something, recognition like a ripple through murky water. A crease of confusion in Thane’s brow. The faintest slackening of his grip.
Riven, instead of fighting, lifted one shaking hand—not to claw, not to struggle—but to hold Thane’s wrist. Just hold it.
His fingers curled around the familiar scarred skin, firm but unthreatening. I’m here, the touch said. Come back.
Thane’s breathing hitched.
Another flicker.
And then the mask cracked. A tremble passed through Thane’s arm, down into his chest, his expression flickering with horror. The strength drained from his body in an instant, and he released Riven like he’d been burned.
Riven dropped.
The floor was cold stone against his back, his body wracked with a desperate gasp as air surged back into his lungs. He coughed, hard, vision swimming as oxygen tore through him, his hands pressed to his throat like he could still feel the imprint of Thane’s fingers there.
Above him, Thane staggered back a step, his face gone pale, lips parted in silent shock.
His voice, when it finally came, was broken. “Riven…”
The first thing that drew Thane’s attention from Riven was the sound of movement—wet, ragged grunts of pain and effort, boots scraping against the stone floor. Yerin.
He had nearly reached the exit, hunched and stumbling, one arm cradling his bloodied side, the other reaching blindly for the doorframe. He was barely upright, dragging himself forward with the last of his strength, still clawing toward whatever pathetic shred of victory he believed was left.
Thane turned.
Whatever clarity had returned to his eyes vanished in an instant, swallowed by the embers of rage still smoldering inside him.
The Soulglass hadn’t burned out of his system—not fully.
It flared again, propelling him forward with inhuman speed.
He crossed the room in a blink, his hand closing around the back of Yerin’s head, and then he slammed Yerin’s face into the stone wall.
Once. A sickening crack echoed through the vault.
Twice. The crunch of bone giving way.
A third time. Blood spattered the wall, thick and dark, and something loose clattered to the floor—teeth, maybe.
A fourth. A fifth. Yerin stopped making noise, but Thane didn’t stop.
Again. Again. Again.
Until Yerin’s body was no longer a body, just limp weight held up by Thane’s grip, and the wall was slick with gore—blood, shattered bone, and strips of torn flesh smeared like paint across the ancient stone.
Riven couldn’t speak. He didn’t try to stop him. He just lay where Thane had dropped him, watching through a haze of pain and disbelief, each ragged breath scraping his throat raw.
It ended like that. Not with a final speech or a grand revelation. No victory. No redemption. Just violence and blood and the end of a man who had once called himself a survivor. Thane let Yerin’s mangled body drop. It hit the floor with a wet, final thud, and he turned back to Riven.
For one brief, flickering second, Riven felt fear.
Not reasoned, rational fear—but something bone-deep and instinctive, flaring bright in his chest like a matchstrike.
Thane was still streaked with blood, still trembling with the aftermath of Soulglass, and when he moved—fast, purposeful—it took every scrap of Riven’s resolve not to recoil.
But he didn’t. He planted his feet, forced his shoulders back. He refused to be afraid of Thane. Not now. Not ever.
Thane reached him and dropped to his knees, his hands coming up to clasp Riven’s shoulders. His touch, warm and solid, trembled with the aftershocks of everything that had just happened.
Silver eyes met his, no longer clouded or empty. No longer feral. They were Thane’s eyes again. The serum had worked.
“I’m sorry,” Thane whispered, again and again, as he pulled Riven into a fierce, shaking embrace. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Riven—gods, I’m so sorry.”
Riven let himself fold into it, into the arms that had nearly killed him minutes ago but had also shielded him from a hundred other dangers before. He closed his eyes, letting the ache roll through him, and whispered back with a voice hoarse and torn, “Don’t be.”
The vault door groaned open behind them.
Thane released him instantly, turning toward the sound. Riven pulled his dagger free, his muscles screaming in protest, ready for another fight.
But it wasn’t the Hollow Hand.
Sorrell stepped through the doorway, flanked by the remaining Glint soldiers.
He looked remarkably composed—barely a hair out of place, though a smear of blood stained his jaw and his sleeves were scorched.
There were fewer soldiers than before, but not many fewer.
They moved with efficiency, spreading through the room like they already knew the fight was over.
“You left the door unlocked,” he explained.
The twins followed a moment later—Luca supporting Cassian, who was clearly injured, his limp pronounced and his face pale but determined.
Sorrell’s sharp gaze swept across the vault, taking in the broken vials, the bodies, the dark blood spattered on every surface. His eyes landed last on Yerin’s crumpled remains, what was left of his face unrecognizable.
“Mecari, I assume?” Sorrell said dryly.
Riven let out a breath, half a laugh and half a sigh, and asked, “Is it over?”
Luca nodded. “It’s over. There’s not a single Hollow Hand agent left breathing in the estate.”
Riven sagged against the wall. The pain was catching up to him now, dull and deep in his chest, his throat burning raw.
Sorrell motioned one of his healers forward. The woman knelt quickly beside the Matriarch, her hands already glowing with magic as she assessed the older elf’s injuries.
“Thane—” she said, reaching toward him too.
Thane waved her off with a slow shake of his head and pushed himself upright, wavering slightly. “See to her first.”
Riven shifted, intending to help steady him, but Thane caught himself and managed to stay on his feet, though he looked as if the weight of the entire House Virellien estate had settled on his shoulders.
“You need to rest,” Riven muttered, leaning his head back against the wall, but he knew Thane would ignore him.
Thane turned to him, but before he could respond, his gaze flicked to Sorrell. “Asterian?”
“He’ll live,” Sorrell said. “But it was close.”
Thane nodded, and whatever force had kept him standing finally gave out. He dropped to his knees again, this time not from violence or rage, but simply from exhaustion. His body folded sideways as he collapsed to the stone floor.
Riven was already moving toward him, catching his arm as everything around them finally, blessedly, began to still.