“They traced the funding to House Mecari. Small enough to be overlooked. Rich enough to bankroll everything from Soulglass trafficking to ritual assassinations. The Matriarch gave the order, and we burned them from the inside out.”
Riven said nothing. He didn’t move.
“They were asleep when we came,” Thane continued. “Parents. Servants. Children. We didn’t leave anyone breathing. Not because they all deserved it. Because it was war. Because fear is a sharper blade than steel.”
He exhaled, a sound like something he’d been holding in for ten years.
“I remember a boy—half my size, screaming over someone already dead. He fought. Gods, he fought. He clawed at me. I thought we killed him.”
Riven’s voice came low. “Yerin.”
Thane nodded once.
“I don’t regret what we did,” he said. “The Hollow Hand collapsed after Mecari fell. We bought the city a decade of peace. But I regret him. I regret not making sure he died. Because this—” his voice cracked just slightly “—this is what happens when you don’t finish the job.”
He looked up at Riven, and for a moment he didn’t look like the heir of a Great House. He just looked tired. Worn down to the bone.
“I failed. And now you’re hurt. The estate will fall. All because I couldn’t see the ghost walking beside me in plain sight.”
“No,” Riven said. Sharper than he meant to, but it cut through the gloom like a knife. “No, you don’t get to do this.”
Thane frowned. “Do what?”
“Sit there like you’re already dead. Like all that matters is what you did wrong. You want to carry guilt? Fine. But do something with it.”
He stalked toward him, dropping to a crouch so they were eye-level.
“You want to make up for your failure? Then get up,” Riven said. “Get up, and fight. Because he’s not finished. And if we don’t stop him, the blood won’t end with your past. He’ll drag the whole damn city into it.”
Thane’s eyes searched his, and for a moment, Riven didn’t know if he’d reached him. Then, slowly, Thane pushed himself off the wall.
It wasn’t graceful. But he rose. Thane limped toward the door and placed his palm flat against it. His expression tensed. “It’s bound,” he said quietly. “Magic lock. Subtle, but deep. Woven straight into the frame.”
Riven stepped beside him. “Can you break it?”
“Yerin’s magic is strong,” Thane muttered, examining the doorframe with a grim look. “But not that strong.”
“And?”
“And I can’t do anything while I have this sigil.” He turned to Riven. “I need your help. I can’t see it well enough to dismantle it. But if you trace it, line for line, exactly how it looks, I might be able to work through it.”
Riven didn’t hesitate. “You think you can break it?”
“If I can study the full design? Maybe. I’ve taken apart worse.” He paused. “But this is precise work. I can’t afford mistakes. You have to show me exactly what he carved.”
Riven crouched beside him and took Thane’s bloodied arm. He reached down to the floor, using his fingers as a brush to sketch the sigil in crimson across the concrete. It came slowly—an intricate lattice of curves and angular strokes, the design at once brutal and elegant, humming faintly with restrained power. Riven worked silently, glancing from arm to floor, methodically recreating the pattern.
Thane watched it take shape with growing intensity. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Good. Keep going.”
As the rune neared completion, a vibration rolled through the air.
Then the floor shuddered beneath them. The lights above them flickered violently, and somewhere deep in the bones of the estate, a groan echoed through stone and steel.
“What the hell was that?” Riven jerked back, wiping his bloodied hands on his shirt.
Thane didn’t answer immediately. He stepped closer, eyes scanning the now-visible binding mark. His face had gone paler.
“Well?” Riven prompted, heart still hammering.
