Another flicker.
And then the mask cracked. A tremble passed through Thane’s arm, down into his chest, his expression flickering with horror. The strength drained from his body in an instant, and he released Riven like he’d been burned.
Riven dropped.
The floor was cold stone against his back, his body wracked with a desperate gasp as air surged back into his lungs. Hecoughed, hard, vision swimming as oxygen tore through him, his hands pressed to his throat like he could still feel the imprint of Thane’s fingers there.
Above him, Thane staggered back a step, his face gone pale, lips parted in silent shock.
His voice, when it finally came, was broken. “Riven…”
The first thing that drew Thane’s attention from Riven was the sound of movement—wet, ragged grunts of pain and effort, boots scraping against the stone floor. Yerin.
He had nearly reached the exit, hunched and stumbling, one arm cradling his bloodied side, the other reaching blindly for the doorframe. He was barely upright, dragging himself forward with the last of his strength, still clawing toward whatever pathetic shred of victory he believed was left.
Thane turned.
Whatever clarity had returned to his eyes vanished in an instant, swallowed by the embers of rage still smoldering inside him. The Soulglass hadn’t burned out of his system—not fully. It flared again, propelling him forward with inhuman speed. He crossed the room in a blink, his hand closing around the back of Yerin’s head, and then he slammed Yerin’s face into the stone wall.
Once. A sickening crack echoed through the vault.
Twice. The crunch of bone giving way.
A third time. Blood spattered the wall, thick and dark, and something loose clattered to the floor—teeth, maybe.
A fourth. A fifth. Yerin stopped making noise, but Thane didn’t stop.
Again. Again. Again.
Until Yerin’s body was no longer a body, just limp weight held up by Thane’s grip, and the wall was slick with gore—blood, shattered bone, and strips of torn flesh smeared like paint across the ancient stone.
Riven couldn’t speak. He didn’t try to stop him. He just lay where Thane had dropped him, watching through a haze of pain and disbelief, each ragged breath scraping his throat raw.
It ended like that. Not with a final speech or a grand revelation. No victory. No redemption. Just violence and blood and the end of a man who had once called himself a survivor. Thane let Yerin’s mangled body drop. It hit the floor with a wet, final thud, and he turned back to Riven.
For one brief, flickering second, Riven felt fear. Not reasoned, rational fear—but something bone-deep and instinctive, flaring bright in his chest like a matchstrike. Thane was still streaked with blood, still trembling with the aftermath of Soulglass, and when he moved—fast, purposeful—it took every scrap of Riven’s resolve not to recoil.
But he didn’t. He planted his feet, forced his shoulders back. He refused to be afraid of Thane. Not now. Not ever.
Thane reached him and dropped to his knees, his hands coming up to clasp Riven’s shoulders. His touch, warm and solid, trembled with the aftershocks of everything that had just happened.
Silver eyes met his, no longer clouded or empty. No longer feral. They were Thane’s eyes again. The serum had worked.
“I’m sorry,” Thane whispered, again and again, as he pulled Riven into a fierce, shaking embrace. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Riven—gods, I’m so sorry.”
Riven let himself fold into it, into the arms that had nearly killed him minutes ago but had also shielded him from a hundred other dangers before. He closed his eyes, letting the ache roll through him, and whispered back with a voice hoarse and torn, “Don’t be.”
The vault door groaned open behind them.
Thane released him instantly, turning toward the sound. Riven pulled his dagger free, his muscles screaming in protest, ready for another fight.
But it wasn’t the Hollow Hand.
Sorrell stepped through the doorway, flanked by the remaining Glint soldiers. He looked remarkably composed—barely a hair out of place, though a smear of blood stained his jaw and his sleeves were scorched. There were fewer soldiers than before, but not many fewer. They moved with efficiency, spreading through the room like they already knew the fight was over. “You left the door unlocked,” he explained.
The twins followed a moment later—Luca supporting Cassian, who was clearly injured, his limp pronounced and his face pale but determined.
Sorrell’s sharp gaze swept across the vault, taking in the broken vials, the bodies, the dark blood spattered on every surface. His eyes landed last on Yerin’s crumpled remains, what was left of his face unrecognizable.
