“Oh, come on,” Sorrell grinned. “Don’t act shy. Everyone called you that during the conflict. You singlehandedly put five Hollow Hand commandants in the morgue. My team has a drinking game about it.”
Vexa snorted softly as they swabbed Thane’s arm with antiseptic. “You’re welcome, by the way,” they said, and pressed the injector to his skin.
Thane didn’t react to the hiss of medicine pushing into his bloodstream. Riven watched the set of his jaw relax slightly, the first sign he’d seen that Thane evenfeltthe pain he’d been carrying.
“How long until he’s mobile?” Riven asked.
“Already mobile,” Vexa replied. “But give it twenty minutes and he’ll feel almost human again.”
“Not the goal,” Thane said under his breath.
Sorrell leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “Well, inhuman works too. We’ve got a Hollow Hand to gut.”
The convoy slowed as the Virellien estate came into view—what was left of it. Smoke rose in thin columns from the far side of the property, and even at a distance, Riven could see signs of damage. Shattered glass glinted in the midday sun, burn marks across stone walls, the scorched remnants of the outer gate twisted open like a peeled lid.
The transports came to a halt in unison. The engine hum fell away, replaced by the low chirp of birds too used to violence to flee from it.
Sorrell was the first to move, hopping down from the transport with a fluid ease, his sidearm already drawn and held loosely at his side. His squad followed, weapons ready, disciplined but alert. Thane came next, moving like someone who’d shaken off the worst of his pain and stuffed what remained into a mental box he could deal with later. Riven landed behind him, boots crunching softly on gravel.
“We go the rest of the way on foot,” Sorrell said without turning around. “Too noisy otherwise.”
They spread out, boots treading carefully over uneven terrain, until Sorrell slowed and held a hand out to Riven.
“Wait.” He reached into a thigh pocket and pulled out a slim black case. Inside was a syringe filled with pale amber liquid, its contents faintly shimmering.
Riven eyed it warily. “What is this?”
Sorrell offered it to him. “Insurance.”
“Against?”
“House Glint’s been working on a counteragent to neutralize the effects of tainted Soulglass. Took a while—dangerous shit, incredibly unstable. But we think this formulation might finally hold.”
Riven’s fingers tightened around the case. “Youthink?”
Sorrell shrugged. “Let’s just say there’s nothing like a field test.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Neither is getting torn apart by drugged-up berserkers,” Sorrell replied, and his tone sharpened just enough to suggest he wasn’t being flippant anymore.
Riven looked down at the vial again. The liquid inside caught the light and refracted it like a gemstone. “Is it meant to inoculate or treat?”
“Bit of both,” Sorrell said. “Ideally you take it before exposure. Might dampen the reaction if you’re already hit, but I wouldn’t bank on miracles. You’re not highborn. Your system doesn’t have built-in resistance.”
Riven pocketed the syringe carefully, the cold weight of it settling against his ribs. “Thanks,” he said quietly.
“Don’t thank me yet. Just don’t waste it.”
Riven glanced at Thane, who stood a few paces ahead, scanning the tree line like he could see the battle before it happened. “I won’t,” he said.
As they reached the edge of the outer grounds, a hush settled over the group. Even the wind seemed to pull back, as if the air itself knew this was the precipice of something ugly.
Sorrell stepped up beside Thane, his expression losing its usual glibness. His voice was low, firm. “Lead the way, Virellien.”
Thane gave a single nod and began moving forward, his posture straightening with every step. He moved like a man returning to his battlefield, not out of choice, but obligation—a knife sliding back into the sheath of its war.
Sorrell turned to his squad. “Fan out. Two-meter spread. Eyes sharp, fingersofftriggers unless it’s hot. We don’t know what we’re walking into, so treat everything like it’s a trap.”
