Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
Selene
The days of waiting were a slow suffocation. The Cistern tightened around us. Cut off from the sky, we measured time by the ache in our muscles and the dying glow-stones.
I sat on the edge of a stone bench, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. The air in the atrium was cool, recycling the breath of the earth, but the exertion of the last hour had left me burning.
My skin still prickled with the effort of the earlier session.
For three days, Riven had pushed me to manifest a barrier, a delicate shimmer of Light designed to cling to my frame.
It felt brittle at first, a glass wall ready to crack under the slightest pressure, but today the golden radiance stayed steady.
The speed of my progress surprised even me.
My magic remained a new, volatile companion, yet it responded to my commands with a readiness that felt almost aggressive.
Across the room, the dull thud of a fist striking muscle echoed against the stone walls.
“Again,” Goran rumbled.
Dane pushed himself up from the floor in silence, his chest heaving, sweat soaking his t-shirt.
He looked restored, a stark contrast to the broken shape he had been a week ago.
Una’s magic had been the catalyst, knitting his spine back together and accelerating the natural resilience of his Varkyn blood.
Goran was trying to force the old Vor-Kahn discipline of dematerialising matter into him, a trick to keep the wolf clothed while Dane usually shredded everything he owned.
The pile of ruined grey joggers in the corner suggested the lesson wasn’t sinking in, though I viewed his failures with the boredom of a partner who had seen him naked in enough alleyways to lose all sense of modesty.
He was desperate to awaken that dormant blood to save his tactical gear, but for now, he was just losing layers.
He lunged at Goran. It was a blur of motion—a feint to the left, a hook to the ribs.
Goran remained planted like a statue. He caught Dane’s fist in one massive palm, the impact sounding like a hammer hitting an anvil. He twisted, throwing Dane onto the mat with a grunt.
“You are fighting like a brawler,” Goran said, his voice bored. “You are thinking about where to hit, just as you are overthinking the fabric. A Vor-Kahn does not think. He knows.”
“Easy for you to say,” Dane panted, wiping blood from his split lip. “You’re the size of a tank.”
“Size is irrelevant. Intent is everything. Master that, and you will keep your bones whole and your trousers on.”
I looked to my left. Riven was leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, watching the sparring with critical detachment. He caught my eye. A silent question. Ready?
I nodded and stood up. “My turn.”
Riven pushed off the pillar, leaving the others to their rhythm. He signalled for me to join him in the empty ring at the far end of the training room, putting ample distance between our practice and the heavy impact of Goran’s fists.
“The problem,” Riven said, turning to face me, “is that your power is tied to your survival instinct. You reach for it when you are afraid. But if you go to the roof of Highspire enraged, you will burn out before you reach the device. You need to be able to turn it on like a switch. Cold. Controlled.”
“Defend yourself,” he commanded.
I held my ground. I called on the Light to protect, willing it into a barrier. A delicate shimmer of gold manifested around me, hovering an inch from my skin. It vibrated with a steady resonance.
Riven walked a circle around me, inspecting the barrier. “Stable,” he noted, his voice low. “It took me six months to master a static ward of this density without it shattering. You have done it in three days.”
I watched the dark ink of his own magic waiting at his fingertips.
The speed of my mastery felt like more than adrenaline.
It was the integration. Alone, my Light was a chaotic flood, but near him, the energy found its edges.
His Shadow acted as a natural counterweight, stabilising the output before I even formed the thought.
We were a closed loop. His control bled into my chaos, teaching the power how to behave simply by being close enough to touch it.
He raised a hand. Shadows bled from his skin, coiling into a dense, inky mass that swallowed the amber light of the room. It solidified into a jagged, opaque shield in front of him.
“Hit me,” he ordered. “Hard.”
I took a breath. I thought about the sheer, impossible weight of the energy living in my blood. I thrust my hand forward.
I released a stream. A beam of pure, concentrated gold erupted from my palm. It collided into Riven’s shadow shield with the force of a physical blow.
Riven grunted, his boots sliding backward an inch on the stone floor. The impact roared, a sound like a jet engine in the enclosed space. Light flooded the atrium, washing out the amber lanterns.
“Hold it!” he shouted over the roar. “Sustain it!”
My arm shook. The power wanted to burst wide, to explode like it had in the alley when Dane and I were attacked by the augmented Umbrakynn, but I forced it narrow. I forced it straight.
For ten seconds, the connection held—my Light pouring into his Shadow, the two forces meeting in a brutal, blinding equilibrium.
Then, my knees buckled. The beam cut out.
I stumbled forward, gasping for air. Riven dropped the shield and closed the distance between us before I could hit the stone. His hands caught my waist, his grip firm and burning with residual heat.
I looked up at him, my chest heaving against his. He looked… satisfied. Small swirls of his shadows were seeping gently through my clothes, a dark mist that felt like a cool caress against my skin, and his breathing was just as ragged as mine.
“Better,” he said, his voice dropping a rough octave as his thumbs brushed my hips. “You held a continuous output for twelve seconds. That is enough to overload the Extractor.”
“I need to do it longer,” I muttered, stepping back. The withdrawal was abrupt; as his shadows detached, they left me feeling unnervingly hollow.
“You won’t need longer,” Riven stated, his hands lingering for a heartbeat too long before he forced them to his sides. His voice was still a rough edge of itself. “Once the reaction starts, it sustains itself.”
“You two are terrifying,” Dane said, forcing a crooked grin. But the attempt at humour fell flat, weighed down by the cold assessment in his eyes. “You caught that like it was nothing.”
“It is discipline,” Riven said, standing his ground. “I have spent decades hardening my defences. She is raw power striking a seasoned wall.”
“Right. Discipline.” Dane watched him, his amber eyes narrowing. The exhaustion on his face hardened into a predatory focus. “My turn. No shadows. No magic. I need to know if you can hold your own when the wards strip us bare.”
Riven stepped onto the mat immediately, his movements fluid as he rolled his sleeves up, revealing the dark ink winding down his left forearm.
“Agreed,” Riven said. “But keep the fur on the inside. I have seen enough of you naked for one day.”
Dane launched himself into motion, a blur of aggression that defied his injury. He fought like a street brawler—efficient and brutal—driving his opponent back with a relentless flurry of hooks to the ribs.
Riven shifted into the space to meet him. He parried the blows with his forearms, absorbing the dull thud of bone on muscle without breaking his stride.
Dane feinted high, then drove a punishing blow straight into Riven’s side—right over the spot where the knife had gone in days ago.
It was a dirty hit. A test.
Riven hissed through his teeth, his face going pale, but he didn’t buckle. When Dane swung for his jaw, putting his entire weight behind the punch to see if he was made of glass, Riven simply caught his wrist in mid-air.
The crack of skin on skin rang out like a gunshot.
Riven’s eyes were merciless, calculating. He twisted his hip, stepping inside the guard to use Dane’s own momentum against him, and swept his legs.
Thud.
Dane hit the mat hard, dust rising into the air.
Riven stood over him, breathing hard, his fist hovering inches from Dane’s face. He held it there for a second—a silent demonstration of what could have happened—before lowering his hand and offering it to Dane.
Dane stared at the open palm. He realised then that Riven had been holding back the entire time; he could have broken the wrist, or ended it in the first three seconds.
He gripped the hand, and Riven hauled him up with a single, powerful pull.
“You’re good,” Dane admitted, wiping sweat from his brow. His voice was grudging, but the hostility had been replaced by a hard-won respect. “For a Consultant.”
“You hit hard,” Riven replied, touching his side gingerly. “For a civil servant.”
Dane straightened his sweat-soaked t-shirt, wincing slightly as his spine protested. He looked at me, then back at Riven. He nodded, a short, quick gesture. It signalled a truce. Riven had held his ground, and for Dane, that resilience outweighed their history.
“Give us two days of this,” Dane said, wiping blood from his lip. “With more practice, we might actually be half-prepared for Highspire.”
“We discussed this,” I said, stepping onto the mat. “Your back shattered less than three weeks ago. The tower is a gauntlet. A hit to the spine ends you.”
“I am standing,” Dane interrupted, his voice hard.
“You favour your left side,” Riven observed dryly. “In a protracted engagement, that hesitation invites death.”
Dane ignored him, locking his amber gaze on me. “They killed Eamon, Selene. The ACD took the case, the city looks the other way, and they bleed people dry in that basement. Nothing in this world matters more than stopping them. I refuse to sit on a bench while you finish the job. I am going.”