Luca looked back once. “Go. We’ll hold them off.”
Riven surged forward. “No, wait—”
Thane caught him by the wrist, his grip unyielding, dragging him back down the hall. “Move, Riven.”
“They’ll be outnumbered!”
“They know.”
He tore his wrist free, turning on Thane. “We have to help them!”
Thane’s jaw was set like iron. “Their duty is here. Ours is ahead.”
“That’s bullshit. You’d tear the world apart for them!”
Thane didn’t flinch. “And I will. But not at the expense of the Matriarch. Not at the cost of everything this House is built on.”
Riven’s voice cracked. “They could die.”
“So could she.” Thane stepped closer, voice low but forceful. “I’m her Knife. Her son. My duty is to protect her first. And Luca and Cassian’s duty is to make sure I can do that.”
It was cruel. It was true.
Behind them, the hallway lit with the flare of combat magic. Gunfire cracked through the air. Riven caught a glimpse of Cassian lunging forward, blade catching the light as he carved through a Hollow Hand attacker. Luca was already in motion beside him, conjuring barriers, siphoning power from the shadows.
A surge of movement pulled Riven back—Thane again, hand on his arm, guiding him forward with a grip that brokered no argument this time.
Riven turned his head just once, heart caught somewhere between awe and agony, as the twins met the oncoming tide.
Then he ran.
He didn’t know how far they went, only that the corridors blurred around him. They passed signs of more skirmishes—burned sigils on the walls, collapsed doorways, bodies in black armor and House violet alike. The estate was bleeding out one hall at a time.
Riven’s breath rasped in his throat. The pain in his side from earlier throbbed dully, but he barely registered it.
He could still see Cassian’s expression—calm and committed, like he’d known all along this moment might come. Like it was already written.
It burned.
Thane didn’t speak as they ran, but Riven could feel the tension radiating off him like heat from a blade pulled fresh from the forge. Not fear. Purpose. Wrath. Whatever lay ahead, he would meet it with that same lethal grace.
Riven pushed himself faster.
If this was the end, then it wouldn’t be for nothing.
The deeper they pushed into the estate, the quieter it became. No more bodies here—only the hush of abandoned hallways and the distant echoes of chaos elsewhere. The lighting was dim in this wing, an automatic energy-saving measure triggered by inactivity, and the sleek wall sconces cast long shadows that shifted as they moved. This part of the manor was reserved for the family’s private quarters. Riven recognized a turn in the corridor from his earliest, most nerve-wracking days in the House—where he’d followed Thane in silence, uncertain if he was about to be punished or protected.
They rounded the corner—and gunfire exploded.
Thane reacted instantly, grabbing Riven and shoving him behind a towering, gilded cabinet that shook as bullets thudded into it. Plaster cracked. Wood splintered.
Riven barely had time to register the near miss before a familiar voice called out from the shadows:
“Does it sound familiar, Riven? That gun? I bet your leg remembers.”
Kieran.
Riven’s blood iced. He hadn’t heard that voice since the mission, but the sound of it brought back the taste of blood and steel, the helplessness of being sprawled in the motel parking lot while pain overtook everything else.
