The silence that followed felt deep enough to fall into. Then the Patriarch leaned back in his chair, hands steepled lightly on the tabletop, gaze fixed on Thane as though trying to divine how much of this was desperation, how much was strategy.
Finally, he said, “And what does House Glint gain from aiding you?”
Riven could hardly keep the snarl off his face. The question grated against every raw edge left in him. They were talking about the rebirth of the Hollow Hand, a group that had already leveled cities, broken Houses, and tortured him withouthesitation—and this man, this polished, calculating Patriarch, was thinking in terms ofprofit.
“Are you serious?” Riven snapped, his voice sharper than he meant it to be. “They’re trying to bring the Hollow Hand back from the dead and you’re asking what yougetout of it?”
Across the table, the Patriarch of House Glint didn’t so much as blink. He merely tilted his head, calm as ever. “It is not crass to think strategically. Selvia would do the same in my position, would she not? It is not about greed. It is about duty. My House comes first.”
There was no bite to his tone, only a cool certainty that made Riven bristle all the more.
Thane spoke before Riven could snap again. “I understand your position, Patriarch Glint. And I won’t insult you by pretending I can offer formal guarantees. I’m not authorized to make promises on behalf of House Virellien at this time.”
The older man’s eyes narrowed slightly. Thane went on.
“But I can say this—I’ll do everything in my power to convince my mother that reigniting our alliance is not just practical, but vital. For both our Houses. For the city.”
Sorrell, who had thus far remained surprisingly restrained, leaned forward just enough to signal the shift in weight. “And respectfully, Uncle…if Virellien falls, what chance do the rest of us have? The Hollow Hand isn’t going to stop once one House is gone. Their entire strategy has always been to dismantle the system from the inside. One win is all it’ll take to spark the next war.”
For a moment, the only sound in the cavernous dining room was the distant tick of the wall clock.
Then, the Patriarch exhaled through his nose. “Only your team, Sorrell. No wider deployment. You may go with them—intervene, if necessary—but if the tide turns against you, you are to withdraw.”
“I understand,” Sorrell said simply, no hint of argument in his voice.
Thane inclined his head. “Then we’re in your debt. Thank you.”
There was something in the way he said it—steady, unflinching, blood still drying in a smear across his jaw—that made Riven pause. For all the chaos of the last day, for all the heat and violence and broken trust, Thane still stood like hebelongedhere. Authority clung to him even now, the Knife of Virellien—battle-worn, battered, and resolute.
As they turned to go, Riven glanced up and caught Thane watching him. For a heartbeat, the weight of everything between them hung unspoken. Then Thane gave a faint nod. Reassuring. Steady.
“It’s time to go home.”
Chapter 67
The interior of the transport rumbled as it pulled away from the Glint estate, the soft hum of reinforced wheels and armored plating giving the ride an industrial rhythm. Riven leaned back against the wall, trying to steady the adrenaline still crackling in his system. Across from him, Thane sat with his arms crossed, his shirt torn and blood drying across one side like war paint. He hadn’t said much since they’d left the Patriarch’s dining hall, but his presence filled the cabin like pressure in a sealed room.
The door at the back of the transport hissed open, and a young elf stepped inside with the kind of casual efficiency that suggested they were used to far worse situations. Their frame was slim, but there was confidence in the way they moved, a calm surety in their eyes. They couldn’t have been more than twenty years old but their expression was all business.
“Ah, perfect,” Sorrell said, twisting in his seat to gesture. “This is Vexa, our squad’s field medic. Don’t let the baby face fool you. They’ve stitched half of us back together more times than I can count.”
Riven raised an eyebrow. “They look like they should be in school.”
“Not mutually exclusive,” Vexa said dryly, setting down a field bag and pulling on gloves. “Now shut up and let me work.”
They crouched in front of Thane, already scanning him with a handheld diagnostic wand that lit up with a soft green glow as it passed over his injuries.
“He’s in rough shape,” Vexa murmured, eyes flicking to the readout. “Fractured ribs, a torn deltoid, internal bruising along the left side—he shouldn’t even be sitting upright.”
“Tell him that,” Riven muttered.
Thane didn’t so much as flinch. “Do what you need to. Just make it quick.”
Vexa rolled their eyes but didn’t argue. They pulled a sealed injector from their pack and loaded it without hesitation.
“We need you in top form,” Sorrell said, his voice unusually level. “No more heroics with half a lung. You’re the Beast, remember?”
Riven chuckled, but Thane gave Sorrell a long, slow look.
