Sorrell gave a tight smile. “Head of House Glint. Commander of the war council. Real charming man. You’re going to hate him.” He looked between them again and added, with a sigh, “But he listens to me. Sometimes. And if you’re right—if the Hollow Hand really is trying to drag all the Houses into a collapse—then he’ll need to hear it from someone who was there.”
His smile vanished. “Just…don’t screw this up. I’m already going to catch hell for this. Don’t make me regret it.”
Chapter 65
The inside of the convoy vehicle was all steel and shadows, humming with the low growl of reinforced tires chewing up pavement. Dim yellow overheads buzzed faintly above the bench seating, their flicker casting long lines across the metal walls. The air smelled like smoke, gun oil, and burnt insulation—like the aftermath of survival.
Riven leaned back against the cold paneling, trying not to wince as his shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Across from him, Thane sat hunched slightly forward, blood drying in streaks down the side of his neck, his expression grim and unreadable. His shirt was torn open at the collar and scorched near one sleeve, exposing a nasty welt where the fire had gotten too close. Still, he hadn’t said a word about the pain.
Sorrell, seated to Riven’s left, looked irritatingly untouched. His combat uniform was dusty but crisp, his posture easy, one boot propped casually on the edge of the seat opposite. The only sign he’d been near the same burning wreckage as them was a soot smudge across his cheek.
Riven glanced sideways at him. “So,” he started carefully, “what should I expect from this meeting with your uncle?”
Sorrell gave him a sidelong look. “You asking if he’s like me?”
Riven hesitated. “Something like that.”
A wicked grin bloomed across Sorrell’s face. “You mean devastatingly handsome, impeccably stylish under pressure, universally adored by enemies and allies alike?”
Riven didn’t even blink. “No,” he said flatly. “That’s exactly what we’re hoping he’s not.”
Sorrell pressed a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “Cruel.”
“He’s not like you,” Thane continued, turning his gaze back to the dark window. “The Patriarch of House Glint is known for being no-nonsense. He doesn’t have patience for flattery or charm. He sees through it. And he trusts very few.”
Riven considered that. “Sounds…manageable.”
Sorrell let out a short laugh. “That’s a generous read. The man doesn’t talk so much as bark. Half his staff is afraid of him, the other half’s deaf in one ear from being shouted at. But he’s sharp. Ruthless when he has to be, but not without reason.”
“Paranoid,” Thane added. “He has reason to be.”
Sorrell gave a small, wry nod. “Yeah, he does. Spent most of his life dragging House Glint back from the edge of obscurity. Back in my grandfather’s day, we were barely hanging on—no leverage, no alliances, barely even a seat at the council table. Now we’re a power again, thanks to him. But it made him cautious. And when you fight that hard to gain ground, you don’t forget how easy it is to lose.”
Riven stretched his fingers over his knee, trying to ease the ache in his arm. “So if we’re lucky, he’ll see value in what we’re saying. The Hollow Hand, the Soulglass. That this isn’t just about House Virellien.”
Sorrell’s smile faded. “If he thinks it’s real—if he thinks the threat’s big enough—he’ll listen. Might even help. But if he thinks we’re wasting his time…” He shrugged. “Well. You probably won’t be invited to dinner.”
“He’ll cut us loose,” Thane said, “and warn the other Houses to do the same.”
The quiet stretched, heavy and electric.
“But,” Sorrell said, tone lightening, “he’s not unreasonable. You give him facts, not fearmongering, and show him you’re not trying to manipulate him? He’ll hear it out.”
Riven met his eyes. “And if I am trying to manipulate him?”
Sorrell’s grin returned, sharp and amused. “Then make sure you’re better at it than he is.”
The vehicle hit a slight bump, jostling them. Outside, the city lights had begun to shift—less smoke now, more steel and order. They were getting close.
House Glint did not reside in a mere estate. The building that loomed into view as the convoy pulled through the wrought-iron gates was more palace than manor—an expanse of elegant sprawl and calculated grandeur that stretched across the hillside like a crown laid on velvet. Ornate facades gleamed in the moonlight, arched windows and carved limestone balconies. Every cornice and column had been designed with reverence for old-world craftsmanship, the kind of ostentatious display once used by kings to remind the world who they were.
But even from the outside, Riven could see it—this was a place designed to impress from a distance. The paint was fresh, but the cracks beneath had not been fully concealed. The hedges were sculpted with manic precision, but the fountain in the circular drive was dry, its basin lined with leaves. Too much polish, too recently applied.
Inside, the illusion began to slip further. The vaulted entry hall boasted high ceilings painted with aging murals—heroic battle scenes and mythic victories—but a few panels were faded, their pigments dimmed by time and sun. The chandelier overhead sparkled with crystal, but one of the arms hung at a slightly crooked angle, its fixings hidden behind a carefully placed garland. The air smelled faintly of lavender oil and dust.
They moved down a corridor floored in white marble, footsteps echoing off high walls. Riven glanced through the wide archways they passed. Most led to shuttered rooms. One still held the ghost of a grand piano under a dusty sheet; another was lined with empty bookcases, their shelves long stripped. He knew the shape of this, had grown up near places like it—once-glorious families with more land than liquid assets, more name than power. Land-rich and cash-poor, as his mother used to say. House Glint wore its dignity like heirloom jewelry—gilded, meaningful, but fragile.
And yet, there was still a sense of nobility to the place. Not just the wealth on display, but the restraint. Whoever ran this House had chosen not to gut the older bones of it. The ancient archways were still made of stone that bore the marks of centuries. The doors were carved by hand, not machine. Riven could feel it in the architecture, pride not in extravagance, but in endurance.
