The street curved up, and he slowed, boot heels tapping softly on the rain-slicked concrete. Up ahead, The Ember Gate pulsed against the dark—a squat building that looked half-abandoned from the outside, paint peeling around the edges, old bricks slick with moisture and tagged with sigils that pulsed faintly in the corner of the eye.
But the door glowed like a mouth about to open.
It wasn’t marked by a name. Only a narrow red slit of light and the press of sound behind it—the throbbing pulse of bass that made his teeth vibrate. Two guards loitered beside the entrance: one smoking, the other whispering into a communicator at his collar. Both wore black, the kind of tailored armor that said they were paid well and liked to hurt people.
They barely glanced at Riven. One gave him a slow once-over, then looked away like he wasn’t even worth a challenge. That annoyed him more than it should’ve.
Riven paused a few steps from the door, letting his body language shift. Slouched shoulders, relaxed knees, the subtle twitch of his jaw. A kid from the slums looking to score or dance or disappear. Not a Virellien asset. Not Thane’s. Not anything but what they needed him to be.
The club would swallow him whole if he let it.
He lingered outside, pretending to check his phone, but really just scanning the perimeter. He counted exit points, watched who walked in and who didn’t. Most people were locals—edgy, underdressed, looking for a fix or someone to fuck or both. But a few had that other look, the Seam-trained sharpness, aware of every shadow. He’d seen that look in the woman from before—the one who’d told him he wasn’t ready.
Lucky him, she hadn’t seen how hard he was trying to prove her wrong.
He flexed his fingers once, rolling out the tension, and glanced up. The drizzle had turned to mist. In the distance,beyond the rooftops of the Seam, the hills rose up toward the estate. Somewhere behind one of those high windows, Thane might still be watching. Riven had told himself he didn’t care anymore, but the thought twisted something in his chest all the same.
Thane had said no. Had spat the word at him like it was final, like it meant Riven had no right to try. And yet Riven had still come here.
Stupid. Stupid and reckless and desperate.
Because part of him still wanted to be seen. Not by the people at The Ember Gate. Not by Lareth. Not by Caerel or even the Matriarch.
By Thane.
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his damp hair.
“This is about the mission,” he muttered to himself. “Not him.”
The lie held together just long enough for him to move.
He stepped toward the door. The bouncer didn’t stop him. Just shifted his stance slightly, a silent gesture of warning:don’t start shit you can’t finish.
Riven gave him a lazy smirk.
The man didn’t reply. The door slid open on a breath of heat and music and something darker—something drug-laced and dangerous and slick.
The Ember Gate opened wide to take him in.
Riven stepped inside without looking back.
Chapter 39
The moment Riven stepped into The Ember Gate, sound hit him like a wave. The bass vibrated in his sternum, syncopated against the backbeat of too-loud synth and the sharp strobe of artificial light. Red and violet flickered over the glossy black tile, pooling like blood and bruises at his feet. Fog machines pumped out a chemical haze that twisted the glamours already cloaking most of the patrons, warping their faces, making their eyes gleam unnaturally. The air stank of sweat, spell-oil, and desperation.
It was familiar. That was the part he didn’t like. The club had an edge to it tonight, a current of tension humming beneath the surface like a live wire—but it still felt like coming home in the worst possible way. And for the first time since he’d arrived in Virellien territory, he wasn’t trailing Thane’s shadow.
No voice in his ear.
No heat at his back.
Just him.
Alone.
He moved deeper into the crowd, keeping his gait loose and his expression blank. Not cocky. Not scared. Just another half-shattered soul with nowhere else to go.
But it felt wrong. Wrong in his gut, wrong in his blood. Thane should’ve been here. Maybe not beside him, but close—watching, guiding, glaring from a distance with that ever-present disapproval that was somehow never just disapproval. Riven didn’t like how exposed he felt without it.
