Thane’s face was still, unreadable. Riven knelt beside him. “What do we do? We can’t just leave him.”
But Asterian’s hand shot out, grabbing Thane’s forearm. His grip was weak, but his voice was strong with fury. “Go. Go before she ends up dead. You want to make it right? Do something right for once in your cursed life.”
Thane’s eyes flickered, something raw beneath the surface, but he nodded. Slowly, he rose and tapped his comm. “Sorrell. We’ve found Asterian. Bad abdominal wound—he’s bleeding out. Sending you a ping now. If you have medics to spare, we need them.”
“Copy,” came Sorrell’s voice, crisp but tense. “We’ll divert. Hold tight.”
Thane looked down at Asterian one last time. “Don’t die. I’m not letting you steal martyrdom from me too.”
Asterian grunted something between a laugh and a cough. “Just go.”
Thane turned, and Riven followed, heart hammering, the echo of Asterian’s bloodied resolve burning in his ears.
The Matriarch’s private quarters loomed at the end of the hall, silent and still behind an intricately carved door. Even now, the wood shimmered faintly with old protective magics, none of them active. The wards were down. All of them.
Thane slowed as they approached. “The entrance to the vault is through there. Hidden behind the north wall of her dressing room.”
Riven opened his mouth to ask how they were getting in when a blur of movement shot out from the shadows to their left.
Thane twisted just in time to avoid a blade slicing for his ribs, but the second knife caught him across the bicep, slicingthrough his coat with a flash of blood. The attacker was fast—smaller than Thane, armored in House Virellien black with no visible insignia, and wielding twin blades that flickered with faint enchantments.
Before Thane could retaliate, the attacker lunged again, a whirlwind of knives aimed at his throat.
Riven moved without thinking.
He slammed into Thane, knocking him backward and out of reach just as one of the blades cut through the air where his neck had been. Riven drew his own knife, shifting to meet the oncoming strike. Steel rang against steel.
The impact jolted through his bones, but he stayed standing, using his smaller frame to duck under a wide sweep and retaliate with a sharp jab toward the attacker’s side. It was blocked—but only just.
The assassin grunted and turned on him fully.
They clashed.
Riven barely had time to breathe. The rhythm was vicious, fast, a dance of inches and instinct. Every strike came fast and clean—slashes meant to kill, not disable. Riven ducked a cut aimed at his temple, countered with a low strike toward the knee. Dodged again. Parried. Slipped sideways, barely avoiding a blade meant for his ribs.
The other man was good. Trained. But Riven was faster.
“Riven—” Thane started, already pushing upright.
“Stay back!” Riven snapped, breathless but certain. His blade locked with one of the attacker’s, their faces inches apart, and he snarled, “He’s mine.”
It wasn’t pride. It was necessity. There wasn’t time for distractions—not if they were this close to the Matriarch.
The assassin tried to knee him, but Riven twisted out of the way and let his momentum carry him into a pivot, blade flashing. He caught the other man’s shoulder—a shallow cut, butenough to slow him. Another swing, parried. Another dodge, too close. One of the twin knives nicked his cheek. The burn was sharp, blood hot down his jaw, but he didn’t falter.
Focus.
He stepped in close. Close enough to smell blood and sweat and the faint reek of Soulglass on the other man’s breath. Their knives clashed again, the metal ringing out like a bell as they struggled in close quarters. Riven gritted his teeth, twisted his wrist, and managed to knock one blade from the attacker’s grip.
The man retaliated instantly, slashing with the second knife—and Riven was a half-beat too slow.
Pain lanced down his side. Shallow, not fatal. But it threw him off just enough.
The assassin surged forward.
Riven dropped to one knee and let the strike pass over his head. Then he came up under it with his off-hand dagger and drove it upward with every ounce of strength he had.
The blade punched through the man’s throat. His eyes went wide. He staggered back, clutching at the wound—but it was already too late. Blood poured down his armor in a flood. He collapsed against the wall and slid down, dead before he hit the floor.
