A tall figure waited near the end of the hallway—straight-backed, dressed in a tailored butler’s uniform that spoke of tradition more than luxury. Human, with neatly combed silver hair and pale, hawkish eyes.
“Master Sorrell,” he said with a dignified nod. “Welcome home.”
“Where is he?” Sorrell asked, coming to a stop before him.
“The main dining room,” the man replied. “But—”
Sorrell waved a hand, already moving. “We’ll find him. Come on.”
They followed him through another wide corridor lined with portraits, the air growing cooler with each step. The heavy carpet muffled their footfalls now, though the weight of what they were walking toward made Riven feel like each one echoed. His shoulder ached. His clothes were soot-streaked and torn, his boots still carrying bits of scorched grass. He caught sight ofhimself in a gilded mirror as they passed it—hair a mess, eyes too wide—and grimaced. No way this looked diplomatic.
Sorrell stopped before a pair of tall wooden doors banded with silver. He turned to face them, looking over Thane first, then Riven.
“I’d really like to get you both changed before we go in,” he said, voice half-resigned. “Just one minute to not look like feral fire spirits would be great.”
“There’s no time,” Thane growled, jaw clenched. “We go in now.”
Sorrell rolled his eyes with theatrical exhaustion, but didn’t argue. “Fine. Just—try not to be an asshole, yeah?”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and pushed open the doors.
Chapter 66
The dining hall of House Glint was designed for spectacle, enormous and echoing, it could have hosted a state dinner or a coronation. The ceiling arched high overhead, its beams steel-reinforced and gilded along the edges, catching the glow of a dozen suspended light fixtures that mimicked old-world chandeliers with a sleek, modern twist. Each one hung at varying heights, casting overlapping pools of warm light across the polished marble floor. Along one wall, towering windows stretched from floor to ceiling, the blackout drapes currently drawn open to reveal the pale shimmer of the estate’s outer grounds—dark hills, glassy walkways, and landscaped gardens silhouetted beneath the moonlight.
A long dining table, black lacquer and inlaid with subtle veins of silver, stretched down the center of the room. It could easily seat fifty, maybe more, though now it stood nearly empty save for one figure seated at its head.
The Patriarch of House Glint did not need a crowd to project authority. Even alone, he made the vastness of the room feel intentional—like it had been built around him. He looked to be in his late sixties, sharp-featured and still powerful in build, with the kind of aging that suggested not decline but consolidation. His hair was a striking crimson, gone silver at the temples but still vivid through the crown, the same telltale color that markedhim as kin to Sorrell. The resemblance was most clear in the face—those sharply cut cheekbones and the uncompromising set of the mouth—but where Sorrell smirked and shrugged and spoke with the easy charm of someone who enjoyed being underestimated, his uncle looked like a man who had spent his entire life ensuring no one ever dared.
He wore a dark, tailored suit with thin crimson pinstripes, crisp and clearly custom-fitted. The shirt beneath was black, the collar sharp, the buttons gunmetal. No tie. No jewelry. Just a single ring of matte obsidian on one finger and a discreet smartlens clipped over his left eye, half-visible beneath the frame of sleek, rectangular glasses. No embellishment for the sake of status—only precision and quiet power.
He didn’t rise when they entered. He didn’t speak. He simply lifted his gaze from a thin tablet lying on the table before him, his expression unreadable as his eyes passed over Thane, then Riven, then finally landed on Sorrell. There was no warmth in that glance—but no surprise, either. Only expectation.
Sorrell didn’t miss a beat. “Uncle. Looking as charmingly severe as ever.” His tone was light, casual, but not careless. The words were flippant, but the incline of his head—just enough to count as a bow—was respectful in the way only someone intimately familiar with power could manage. “I brought guests.”
The Patriarch arched a single brow.
“This is Riven,” Sorrell continued, gesturing smoothly. “And Thane Virellien, though I suppose you already know that.”
“I do,” the Patriarch said. His voice was low and even, crisp as glass. “You’re bleeding on my floor.”
Thane didn’t so much as glance down. His shirt was scorched, his jaw shadowed in soot, and there was a vivid smear of dried blood trailing from the side of his temple. “It seemed more efficient than delaying with wardrobe.”
That won him a sliver of something that might’ve been amusement in the Patriarch’s eyes.
Thane stepped forward. “I won’t waste your time. A survivor of House Mecari—Yerin Mecari—is alive. He has spent the last decade hiding in the shadows, plotting, resurrecting the Hollow Hand. And he’s making his move now.”
The Patriarch didn’t blink. “Definemaking his move.”
“He’s already found a way inside the Virellien estate. The Hollow Hand is on its way now for a coordinated assault. I don’t know how deep the breach runs, but we need to get back there.”
Riven added quietly, “This isn’t just about Virellien. The plan was always to blame Glint if the Soulglass operation went public. If they succeed in destroying Thane’s House, the rest won’t be far behind. They’re trying to burn the old Houses down and start something new.”
Still, the Patriarch didn’t move. He regarded them with an intensity that made Riven feel like he was being measured to the gram. “And you want what, exactly? Reinforcements?”
Thane didn’t flinch. “A vehicle. And permission for Sorrell and his team to assist.”
Sorrell gave his uncle a sheepish shrug. “They made some good points. Figured you should hear them yourself.”
