Not in temperature, but in the way it felt sealed off from the rest of the world. Thick walls. Reinforced door. No windows. No light except a strip of dim LEDs overhead, buzzing faintly like they were mocking him. Riven paced once, then again, and stopped before he wore a path in the floor.
They’d separated them fast. Guns up, hands grabbing, spells crackling. Someone had thrown a cloth sack over his head before he could even turn to look at Thane, and when it came off again, this room was waiting for him. Not a cell, exactly, but it may as well have been.
He sat down, then stood again five seconds later. The silence scraped at him.
They had Thane.
Riven swallowed hard, throat dry.
He didn’t know where they’d taken him—didn’t know if Thane was okay, or if “okay” even applied when you were dragged off by the Hollow Hand and their sadistic leader. Thane had been hurt before the ambush. He’d taken the lightning head-on, shielding Riven from the brunt of it. He’d been limping, his coat scorched through, his skin blistered. And still he’d fought to get them out, to break through that cage, to make sure Riven was safe.
And what had Riven done?
Led him right into the trap.
Riven sat, elbows on his knees, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes like it might stop the thoughts. But they kept coming, louder with every passing second. He’d known this mission was a risk. Caerel had said desperation might open a door, and Riven had hoped it would. He’d walked into The Ember Gate on his own. He’d pretended to be desperate, reckless, greedy enough to sell out a House. Maybe he’d played it a little too well, because they hadn’t just believed him. They’d used him.
He stood again, pacing tighter now. His shoulder throbbed faintly—still not fully healed from the bullet wound—and his whole body ached from the aftermath of the lightning, but none of it mattered. Not compared to the coil of dread in his gut.
He didn’t know if they were going to question him again. Didn’t know if Lareth would come in with that same calm cruelty, say something about Thane to provoke him, to see how far he could push before Riven snapped. He almost hoped he would.
Because right now, doing nothing was worse.
He reached up and dragged both hands through his hair, breath shuddering. If they hurt Thane—if they killed him—
No.
He couldn’t think that way. Couldn’t let that possibility solidify in his head.
Thane was alive.
He had to be.
Because if he wasn’t—if this ended with Riven walking out alone—he wasn’t sure who he’d be anymore. Wasn’t sure he’d want to find out.
The silence pressed in closer, more suffocating than smoke.
The door clicked open.
Riven froze, every muscle tensed. He had nothing on him, no weapon, no plan, just a battered body and the fire in his chest that hadn’t gone out yet. He scanned the floor quickly—no sign of anything he could use as a makeshift weapon, just the bare-bones furnishings of the dingy room and the cold draft leaking in through the warped window.
Two men stepped inside, neither of them ones he recognized from the truck or the compound. One was broad-shouldered with a short buzz of sandy hair, the other leaner, wiry, with a burn scar crawling up the side of his neck. Both wore the same dull-gray tactical gear, both armed, both impassive.
“On your feet,” the buzz-cut one said. “You’re coming with us.”
Riven didn’t move. “Where?”
“Not a request,” the other one said, already stepping further in. “You can walk, or we drag you. Makes no difference to us.”
Riven’s mind raced. No time to stall, no time to think. His body screamed at him when he tried to swing his legs off the bed, pain flaring in his thigh, but he bit down hard and pushed through it. If they were moving him, that meant change. Change meant risk—and maybe, if he was lucky, opportunity.
“I’m walking,” he muttered, voice raw. “Don’t touch me.”
Buzz-Cut gave a half-shrug, backing off just enough to let Riven limp forward on his own. Every step was fire up his spine, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t ask where they were taking him again. He knew better than to expect an answer that mattered.
The hallway outside was dim, concrete underfoot, stripped bare of any ornament. No windows. Just more doors, all shut. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft thud of boots and the uneven shuffle of his own gait. Riven kept his eyes open, mapping the route, clocking the angles of the turns, the location of cameras, the weight of the gun at the man’s hip ahead of him.
Whatever came next, he’d need to be ready.
