The crack of the bullet sliced the air. The distant figure jerked, convulsed, then dropped out of sight.
Silence.
Only the ringing in Riven’s ears remained, and the scrape of their breath in the alley.
“Let’s go,” Cassian said tightly.
Riven turned to Luca. “You okay?”
Luca nodded, his jaw set despite the pain. “I’ll live.”
They sprinted across the street and scaled the fire escape quickly—Riven’s dizziness forgotten in the rush of adrenaline. Cassian reached the sniper first and turned the mage over.
A young man, maybe twenty. Pale, with frost-burned fingertips and magic residue still glittering in his veins.
Cassian crouched and unbuttoned the outer coat.
Inside the lining was a faint, embroidered sigil. A House crest.
“Glint,” Cassian said grimly.
Riven’s brow furrowed. He knelt beside the man, studying his slackened face. “Why would a Glint mage come after me?”
“No idea,” Cassian said.
Riven brushed hair back from the assassin’s face, exhaling sharply. “He’s alive, barely.”
“Good,” Luca said from behind him, voice flat and unyielding, promising something very unpleasant in the unconscious mage’s future.
Chapter 21
The car was filled with Luca’s ragged breathing, each breath a sharp reminder of what happened. Cassian drove with both hands white-knuckled on the wheel, eyes flicking constantly between the road and the rearview mirror. Riven sat in the passenger seat, his stomach churning with more than just the fading alcohol.
He hadn’t meant for this to happen. He’d just wanted to escape, to feel normal for one fucking night, to forget the weight of the House’s mark on his skin. And now Luca was slumped in the back seat, one arm pressed tight against the cauterized wound on his back, face drawn with pain but lips tight with stubborn silence. Riven wanted to say something, to apologize, to fix it. But what could he say that didn’t sound hollow?
He glanced sideways at Cassian. The twin’s jaw was clenched, his anger so contained it radiated in the contained space. Cassian had called ahead before they’d even pulled away from the alley. Riven had a sinking feeling about who he’d spoken to.
They pulled through the estate gates without a word. House Virellien staff were waiting at the entrance to the main building—two medical aides with a stretcher, a steward with a datapad, and a pair of guards who stepped in as soon as the trunk popped open and the wounded mage was dragged from the back. Rivencaught a glimpse of his blood-slicked robes, of the Glint crest still shining at his collar.
“Take him to holding,” the steward ordered, voice clipped. “The Matriarch wants answers by morning.”
Luca made a move to follow the stretcher, but Cassian intercepted him, gripping his shoulder.
“Nope. You’re headed to the infirmary.”
“I’m fine—” Luca started, but it ended on a hiss as he shifted and the pain lanced through him again.
Cassian didn’t budge. “Don’t be an idiot.”
Riven walked beside them in silence as they moved through the hallways, deeper into the estate. The infirmary was tucked behind the armory, a contrast to the brutalist aesthetic of the rest of the Virellien compound. Its walls were pale gray, the floor a smooth, polished concrete. It smelled faintly of antiseptic and crushed herbs. Recessed light panels washed everything in a muted gold.
“Sit your ass down before you fall over,” came a dry voice from the far end.
The House doctor emerged from a side office, stripping gloves from their hands. They were tall and whip-thin, with russet brown skin, a mass of tight curls pulled back into a scarf, and a pair of amber glasses perched on their nose. The lab coat they wore was half-buttoned over dark clothes, and they moved with a kind of sharp efficiency that brooked no nonsense.
“Aeris,” Cassian greeted. “He caught a spell, lower back.”
“I can see that. Shirt off, lie down. Now.”
