Ten years later, he was better at it than he liked to admit.
Fellik sealed the case.
“I’ll take it,” he said, not meeting Riven’s eyes. “But I’m telling you now, don’t come back next week with another House pull. Not till things cool down.”
“You say that every week.”
“Yeah,” Fellik muttered. “And one of these weeks, you won’t walk back out.”
He handed over a credit chip—modest, but real—and Riven tucked it into his belt.
Just as he turned to leave, his pocket buzzed.
Riven sighed and pulled out his phone. One message from his sister.
“Come home. Urgent.”
His stomach turned.
He stared at the words for a moment, thumb hovering over the screen. He resisted the urge to send a snarky message back. It was always urgent with her.
Then he shoved the phone back into his pocket and stepped out into the night.
The city was still out there. Chewing, gnashing, glittering like a blade.
And now, so was something worse.
By the time he reached home, early morning light illuminated the bustling megacity of Atlantis. The building he and his sister called home looked worse in daylight, which said something, because it was already a crumbling eyesore by moonlight. Concrete cracked like dry skin. The stairwell stank of mildew and cheap incense. Someone had tagged a curse glyph over the buzzer panel again, low-level hexwork meant to sour luck and rot bones. Riven stepped over it, jaw tight, and froze the moment he saw the vehicle out front.
Sleek. Black. Subtle as a gun to the temple.
The Virellien sigil gleamed silver on the driver-side door—an elegant dagger driven through the heart of a lily in bloom. Riven swore under his breath and took the stairs two at a time.
Inside, the apartment was a familiar mess of too much and not enough. Threadbare furniture crowded against cracked walls. An ancient vidscreen flickered blue static over a stained rug. The air smelled like burnt coffee and leftover synth-noodles, and half the lights didn’t work unless you kicked the baseboards. He shoved the door open, half-expecting a shakedown already in progress.
Instead, he found his sister trying and failing to talk her way out of something she clearly couldn’t fix.
Kaya stood just inside the living room, slim arms crossed tight over her chest, face drawn and pale beneath her tangled black curls. Her coat hung off one shoulder, and her eyeliner hadsmudged like she’d been rubbing her eyes. They looked alike, more than either of them liked to admit—same dark hair, same angular cheekbones, same storm-gray eyes that saw too much and gave away too little. But while Riven carried himself like a blade half-drawn, she always looked close to falling apart.
Facing her was a tall elf woman clad in full House tactical gear, the dark fabric lined with thin rune-silver that gleamed faintly in the shadows. Her face was unreadable, lips pressed in a line of quiet impatience, her hands resting on the belt of her armor. She didn’t look impressed. She looked like someone who was here to tick a box and leave with a problem crossed off.
“I just need more time,” Kaya was saying. “I can make it up, I swear. I’ve got something lined up, it’s just—”
“No more time,” the woman said flatly.
Riven stepped inside. “What’s going on?”
The elf’s eyes flicked toward him. “She’s out of time. The House has waited long enough.”
He stared at his sister, who avoided his gaze. Her arms tightened around herself, like they could hold in the mess she’d made. The apartment suddenly felt too small, the air too thin.
“What happens now?” Riven asked quietly.
“She’ll be remanded into House custody and assigned labor until her debts are cleared.” The elf said it like reading off a list.
“No,” Riven said. He reached into his coat and pulled out a wad of cash, the last of what the fence had handed him, and held it out. “Take this.”
She didn’t move. “It’s not enough.”
