The grounds of the Virellien estate were too quiet at first, a stillness that belied the chaos Riven knew had to be unfolding just beyond the walls. But as they crept deeper across the open property—skirting the fountain-lined walkway, passing ornamental hedges trimmed to perfection—faint sounds began to rise. Muffled shouts. The low bark of gunfire. The muted whine of magic building and discharging.
The Hollow Hand was inside.
Thane’s pace quickened, each step calculated and confident. He veered left of the main path, motioning for the others to follow him off the gravel and into the shadowed hedge line. “There’s a staff entrance this way,” he murmured withoutlooking back. “Concealed. It’s old. Hopefully they don’t know about it.”
They followed without question. Sorrell fell into step beside Riven, his usual glibness gone. Every movement was precise now, his focus trained forward like a laser. The Glint soldiers flanked them, silent and professional.
The door Thane led them to was low and narrow, tucked between a jut of brickwork and a retaining wall. From the outside it looked like an unimportant utility panel—something you wouldn’t give a second glance. But Thane produced a key from his belt and slid it into the rusted lock. It turned with a reluctantclick.
They slipped inside.
The corridor beyond was narrow and windowless, the walls painted a drab cream that did nothing to disguise its age. Pipes lined the ceiling in a twisting maze, and the air was warm and slightly metallic. Riven had never been down here before. This wasn’t the elegant part of the house—the grand halls, the mirrored staircases, the carved doorframes and LED-lit alcoves.
But a circular window in the next door gave him a glimpse of that world. Through it, he saw the estate’s kitchen—bright and stainless, counters gleaming, its surfaces unmarred by the violence just outside its walls. It looked like a showroom version of itself, eerily still, as if the staff had simply vanished mid-shift.
No one was in the hallway. Their footsteps sounded too loud in the quiet, even as they tried to tread lightly. But with every step, the noise from deeper within the estate intensified—the thud of boots, the rasp of shouting, the echo of something breaking.
Thane turned and raised a hand, slowing them to a stop.
“Be ready for anything ahead,” he said, voice low and even. “Our first priority is the Matriarch. After that, Yerin.”
Even in the dim corridor, Riven caught the flicker of tension behind Thane’s eyes. Not fear—Thane didn’t fear like normal people—but something colder. Controlled.
Sorrell adjusted the grip on his rifle and asked, “And if we run into Hollow Hand agents on the way?”
Thane looked at him.
Sorrell blinked. “Okay. Stupid question.”
The Glint soldiers gave tight nods and checked their gear, pumping their rifles in quick, efficient motions. The sound echoed off the walls, final and sharp. Riven’s hands tightened around his pistol again, and now it wasn’t nerves—it was instinct. His heart had started to thunder in his chest, blood rushing in his ears louder than the growing conflict beyond.
This wasn’t practice. This wasn’t some undercover job, some heist, some clever game of pretend.
This was war.
And now they entered the lion’s den.
Chapter 69
They didn’t make it far before the first bodies came into view.
Just past the next corner, where the servant corridor intersected a broader hallway, two House guards lay sprawled against the wall, their blood smeared in stark, dark streaks across the marble floor. One had his throat slit. The other’s chest had caved in like a collapsed tunnel, ribs shattered beneath a vicious blow. A third body—Hollow Hand, marked by the crude tattoo burned into his neck—was slumped nearby, jaw broken and eyes wide in a death mask.
The group slowed.
Thane stepped forward first, silent, gaze tracking over the carnage. His shoulders rose and fell once, as if dragging in a breath he didn’t quite take. Something moved through him, stillness preceding devastation. Riven could feel it building in him, like pressure behind glass.
These were Thane’s people.
The hallway smelled of blood and ozone. Magic had been used here, briefly and violently.
They continued, stepping over the dead.
The deeper they moved into the estate, the more corpses they passed. Some Virellien. Some Hollow Hand. All left like debris in a crumbling ruin. The sounds of conflict surged andwaned around them—fighting, but scattered. Not as centralized as Riven had expected. If the Hollow Hand had taken the estate completely, they were still in the process of consolidating it.
Thane led them with grim certainty through the winding servant halls until they reached the threshold of the main foyer. He raised a fist, halting the team. Then he glanced back, jaw clenched. “Company.”
A dozen Hollow Hand fighters were stationed in the space beyond, their gear mismatched but deadly, most of them high on something—Soulglass, probably. Their eyes glowed faintly, glassy with haze. One of them caught the movement and shouted.
