“The city’s a spine,” he said. “Every House wraps around it like muscle. If the muscles tear the wrong way, the whole thing collapses.”
Riven squinted. “Poetic.”
Thane glanced over his shoulder. “You’ll want to learn the language. Pretty metaphors make ugly truths easier to swallow.”
He returned to the table, pulled another chair closer to Riven’s side, but didn’t sit. Instead, he leaned one hip against the edge and crossed his arms, looking down at him.
“Let’s talk about Glint again,” he said. “They’re careful and they’re clean. They don’t leave fingerprints, let alone dead mages with their crest tattooed on their damn neck.”
“You think it’s staged,” Riven said slowly.
“I think it’s stupid,” Thane replied, “and they’re not stupid.”
“But the mage from the alley was definitely theirs. And the guy from the motel too, right?”
Thane inclined his head. “That’s what we’re told. But they could’ve been planted. You don’t go to war with another House on a guess. That’s how Houses die.”
The words hung in the air between them.
“What does this have to do with me?” he asked.
“Tonight, I’ll be meeting with their representative.” Thane turned back to the room’s long table and tapped a subtle rune set into its sleek surface. A holographic projection shimmered to life above it, casting soft white-blue light that danced across the table. At its center spun the full-color, full-scale 3D image of a man—or elf, rather—lounging like he hadn’t a care in the world.
Riven blinked. “That’s him?”
“Lord Sorrell of House Glint,” Thane confirmed, his tone dry. “Son of their old war advisor, now one of their youngest ruling voices.”
Sorrell looked nothing like Riven had expected. His hair was a shade Riven would’ve called ostentatious on anyone else—rich crimson, not dyed, but natural, if his House lineage was to be believed. It fell in layers around his sharp face in artful disarray, and his mouth curved in a knowing smile that promised chaos. The coat he wore was tailored within an inch of its life, black brocade embroidered in copper thread with matching gloves tucked in one pocket. Riven couldn’t tell if the brooch at his lapelwas ornamental or a weapon. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it were both.
“Gods,” Riven muttered. “He’s dressed like he’s about to walk a runway.”
Thane huffed. “He usually is. Sorrell considers himself a patron of the arts. And of attention. But underneath all the flair is a political animal, and he’s vicious when cornered. Don’t let the eyeliner fool you.”
“He’s…not what I expected,” Riven said, eyeing the languid smirk and careless posture. “He’s dangerous?”
“Very. He’s a bit of a reformer, publicly pushing for peace and reconstruction. He’s spoken in favor of rekindling ties with Houses like ours in the Council. Privately? He’s clever, theatrical, manipulative, and entirely capable of going head-to-head with someone like me.”
Riven turned back toward Thane slowly. “So…has he?”
“A few times,” Thane admitted with a slight shrug. “Official disputes. Unofficial ones.”
“And who won?”
Thane stepped in close, the hologram casting soft shadows across his face. He tilted his head and smirked.
“What do you think?”
The question unbalanced him, and he knew Thane could see it. That damned glint of amusement sharpened in Thane’s eyes, and he didn’t look away until the image faded.
“Just be ready,” Thane said, turning back toward the far door. “Sorrell’s the kind of man who’ll have a knife hidden under his compliments. And you’re going to be in the room when I meet him.”
Riven’s stomach dipped. “Why?”
“Because you were there for both attacks. Because you saw things. And because whether you like it or not, you’re already part of this.”
Riven lifted his chin. “Or is it because I sucked your cock?”
Thane didn’t flinch. “It’s because you’re mine.”
