Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
Selene
Forty-eight hours.
That was how long it took for the world above to rewrite the history of the world below.
We were gathered around the central stone table in the Cistern’s atrium.
The glow-stones overhead were dimmed to a faint amber pulse, leaving the battered tablet propped up against a stack of old books as the sharpest light in the vast, shadowed room.
Its screen glitched with a grainy, encrypted video feed.
Orin’s face filled the frame. He looked exhausted, sitting in the shadows of his own flat, curtains drawn shut. Mira sat beside him, her face pale and tight with anger.
“The encryption is holding for now,” Orin said, his voice tinny through the tablet speakers. “But you can’t stay on the line long. They’re sweeping the frequencies.”
“Who is?” Dane asked.
He was leaning against the stone pillar, his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing borrowed tactical gear from the Archive stores and a look of grim resignation.
“Everyone,” Mira said. “MCIU. ACD. Private security contractors. There is a city-wide manhunt.”
She leaned forward, her eyes dark.
“They released the official statement an hour ago.”
Orin tapped a key. The video feed switched from their faces to a news broadcast.
The headline banner screamed across the bottom of the screen in bold red: TERROR IN HIGHSPIRE.
A reporter stood in front of the ruined facade of Quinn Tower. The lobby was boarded up with heavy steel sheets, but the scorch marks were visible on the stone. The top of the tower—where the chrome spire had once stood—was a jagged, broken tooth against the grey sky.
“Authorities have confirmed the identities of the radicals responsible for the devastating attack on Quinn Enterprises,” the reporter said, her voice grave.
Photos flashed on the screen.
First, Riven. A grainy surveillance shot from years ago, looking cold and dangerous.
“Riven Ashborne. Disgraced former consultant. Wanted for multiple counts of murder and acts of magical terrorism.”
Then, Dane. His official police ID photo, looking stoic and dependable.
“Detective Dane Lennox. Accused of aiding and abetting a known fugitive.”
And finally, me.
It was a photo from my graduation day. I was smiling. I looked young. I looked like someone who believed that the law protected people.
“And Detective Selene Rowan. Wanted for the murder of philanthropist Varessia Quinn and conspiracy to incite magical unrest.”
The screen cut to a photo of Varessia. It was a glamour shot—professional, benevolent, untouched.
“Ms. Quinn is being hailed as a hero today,” the reporter continued. “She died trying to protect her employees from the assault. A memorial service is being planned for later this week.”
I stared at the screen, a knot tightening in my stomach.
“A hero,” I whispered. “She was going to feed the city to monsters, and they’re calling her that.”
“History is written by the ones with the power,” Riven said, stepping away from the periphery of the room. “The microphone is simply a tool they purchased.”
He walked towards me, the black iron dagger in his hand.
His movements were slow and methodical as he ran the rag over the blade one last time.
He looked recovered from his physical wounds, though the intensity in his expression had remained fierce since we fled Highspire.
Stopping at the table, he placed the clean metal flat on the stone directly in front of me.
It was a silent offering—a promise of his continued help, and a firm push to hold my ground.
I stared at the weapon. My fingers drifted to the back pocket of my jeans, finding the hard edges of my police shield.
I pulled it out and set it on the table next to the dagger.
The silver crest looked small and entirely irrelevant now.
I was a detective once, operating within the boundaries of the law.
The city had stripped that away. Yet, looking at the dagger, and then at the man who had placed it there, my resolve solidified.
I refused to cower. I was going to fight back, and I was absolutely certain I wouldn’t be doing it alone.
“There’s more,” Orin said, his voice returning as the news feed cut out.
“We no longer have access to the Calysteri murder cases. They’ve scrubbed those records completely.
Miller Cross, Varessia’s employee who turned up dead—his entire file was deleted.
It’s like the man never existed. The warrant you tried to serve to lock her up is also gone.
Erased. Officially, that arrest never happened. ”
“It happened,” Dane growled. “We were there.”
“We know,” Mira said softly. “And we aren’t going to let them bury it completely. Orin has backups of the autopsy. We have the logs.”
“Don’t use them,” I said sharply. “Not yet. If you release anything now, they’ll track it back to you. You’ll end up on a wanted wall next to us—or worse.”
Orin looked like he wanted to argue, but I kept my focus on Mira.
“But there is a play you can make. Daniel Thorne’s evidence box—the physical documents he gathered against Highspire. I stashed them under the loose floorboards in my bedroom.”
Mira leaned closer to the camera. “You want me to extract it.”
“Only if it’s clean. Highspire will have eyes all over my building. If it looks too hot, you walk away.”
Mira gave a tight nod. “I’ll get the box.”
She placed a hand on Orin’s arm to quiet his lingering protests and then looked back at me, her expression softening into genuine concern. “How are you holding up, Selene? Really?”
I looked around the Cistern—at the solid stone walls, the dusty books, and the team standing ready in the low light.
“We are standing,” I said. “But we aren’t cops anymore, Mira. We are the only defence left against the entities Korenth brought through the Rift.”
The silence in the room deepened. It was the simple truth.
“Be safe,” Orin whispered. “Please.”
“You too,” I said. “Keep your heads down. We’ll contact you when it’s safe.”
I reached out and tapped the screen. The connection died and the tablet went black.
Quiet rushed back into the Cistern.
Dane let out a long breath and ran a hand through his hair.
“Well,” he said, his voice rough. “That’s it, then. Most Wanted.”
He reached into the pocket of his borrowed tactical jacket and pulled out his own police shield. He tossed it onto the stone table, the heavy metal clattering as it came to rest right beside mine.
“I always thought I’d get fired for insubordination,” he muttered, staring at the discarded silver crests. “Not for saving the world.”
“We didn’t save it,” Riven said.
He sheathed his dagger with a click. He finally looked up, his pale blue eyes locking onto mine.
“We stopped the machine,” Riven murmured. “But we didn’t stop the transfer. They are already here.”
Dane pushed off the pillar. He took a step towards the table, his expression hard.
“The one in the middle,” Dane said, his voice cutting through the quiet. “The one who singled you out in the lobby.”
I looked at Dane, then at Riven. I had been fading in and out, the memory of those final moments a blur of noise and light. I hadn’t seen a face.
“He locked right onto you,” Dane pressed.
“He never opened his mouth. Still, something shifted between you two. I heard your heart rate spike. Your scent changed to pure panic.” Dane tilted his head, his amber eyes never leaving Riven’s face.
“And the stranger… his scent was completely alien, yet strangely familiar. Like an echo of your own. Who was he?”
Riven’s jaw tightened. He kept his gaze fixed on the table, his posture rigid. “I don’t know.”
I studied them both. Dane maintained a casual stance, though his calculating stare made it obvious he suspected a lie. Riven was guarding the memory as if it were a physical wound, deliberately withholding the truth. I knew him well enough by now to trust he had a reason for the deception.
He stepped into the light of the glow-stones.
“The city belongs to them now,” he said, his voice completely hollowed out.
He didn't say anything else. He just stared at the darkened screen of the tablet, his jaw locked tight enough to crack bone. It wasn't surrender in his posture—it was a man using every ounce of his willpower to keep from shattering.
I kept my silence, trusting that the rest would come later. The war was waiting for us above, but looking at the haunted exhaustion anchoring his eyes, I knew we couldn't fight it until I figured out what was breaking him apart from the inside.
The underground river flowed through a natural cavern half a mile from the main atrium.
It was a dark, silent place, the water black and glassy as it cut through the rock on its way to the sea. The air here was cold, smelling of wet stone and salt.
We stood on the bank. The whole team was there.
Dane stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at the water. Goran loomed like a standing stone in the background. Aelira stood beside him, her hands clasped in her grey robes, watching the current with the solemnity of a woman who had recorded every step that led to this moment.
The twins, Torvin and Karys, stood quietly by the tunnel entrance. Una was with them. She had her arms linked through theirs, a grounding presence. She had known him—the man who had shouldered the weight of a broken sky for thousands of years. She stood witness.
I held the book in my hands. The Little Sun and the Little Moon.
It was battered, the spine cracked, the pages worn soft by years of bedtime stories. It was the map they had left me.
I opened it to the very back.
The last page had no words. It was just an illustration—a simple watercolour of the Sun and the Moon sitting together on the edge of the world, watching the stars come out.
I carefully tore the page from the binding. The sound of the paper ripping echoed in the vast cavern.
My hands trembled as I folded it.
Fold the corners. Tuck the edges. Pull the centre.