“I’m not your errand boy.”
“No,” she agreed. “You’re House Virellien’s errand boy.”
Riven wanted to snarl. Instead, he looked at the Seam map again, the red pulse of danger.
“How big are we talking?”
The woman met his eyes. “Big enough that the Knife of House Virellien is worried. And he doesn’t worry for nothing.”
Thane Virellien’s reputation preceded him in any circle, and Riven knew that anything that would worryhimwas trouble.
Chapter 5
“The Knife is expecting you,” the woman continued, already moving.
Riven barely had time to shoot her a narrowed glance before she swept down the corridor like she owned it. Efficient, unreadable, and clearly not interested in giving him a moment to think.
He followed, boots echoing behind her sharp strides. “Is this how things work in House Virellien? Everyone rushing around at breakneck speed like they’re so fucking important?”
She didn’t respond. Just turned down another corridor, this one quieter, the walls darker, hung with long silken banners stitched in silver. House Virellien’s crest glimmered faintly with every flicker of light.
She stopped in front of a black door and opened it without knocking. “Go in. Speak clearly. Don’t waste his time.”
Then she was gone, and Riven was alone in the doorway.
He stepped inside.
The room was spare and sleek—dark wood, leather, and glass. No unnecessary ornament, just a single long window overlooking the water and a low table with a folder resting dead center. Thane stood with his back to the door, hands clasped behind him, silhouetted in citylight.
“Sit,” Thane said without turning.
Riven raised a brow, but dropped into the only chair opposite the folder. “You’re not much for pleasantries, huh?”
“No,” Thane said, turning finally. His dark shirt was crisp, collar open, forearms bare. The lean muscle caught Riven’s eye for a half-second longer than it should have.
Riven looked away first.
Thane moved to the table, flipped the folder open, and slid it toward him. “There’s a leak in our western docks operation. Someone’s been moving contraband through our shipping lanes under another crest. We didn’t authorize the cargo, but we’re getting blamed for it.”
Riven leaned forward. Photos. A cargo manifest. Symbols he didn’t recognize. “What kind of contraband?”
“Altered Soulglass,” Thane said. “It’s been changed to be deadlier, more potent. Only a few instances.”
Riven’s brow furrowed. “You think someone’s testing this new formula? And hiding it under your banner?”
“That’s the theory.” Thane tapped the folder. “We’ve narrowed it to a shell company running through the Seam.”
Riven already knew that much, and he didn’t like it. Atlantis’s undercity was a network of clubs, back-alley auction houses, cursed vaults, and black-market brokers. Riven had done work there. Enough to know that a careless job could leave you hexed, hollowed, or dead.
“You want me to go in as what?” Riven asked. “A buyer?”
Thane shook his head. “A runner. They’re hiring outside talent to move the next shipment. You have the right kind of reputation, and you’re not a known Virellien asset.”
“So I’m expendable.”
“You’re useful,” Thane corrected. “If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here.”
Riven snorted.
