“He’d better. The Hollow Hand has waited too long for its moment to allow it to be undone by recklessness.”
Something about that name pierced through the fog.The Hollow Hand.Even in his dazed state, it landed like a weight in his gut.
A pause.
“Everything’s going to go according to plan,” the second voice said, confident. “I’ve got this under control.”
Riven wanted to move. Wanted to open his eyes, to see their faces, to remember their voices. But he couldn’t do anything. Not even lift a finger.
The darkness took him again before he could try.
The next time Riven surfaced, his head felt clearer—and the pain was excruciating.
It lanced up his thigh in a hot, pulsing rhythm that left him biting down hard to keep from making a sound. His leg was still there, and he could move it, sort of, but every twitch sent a sick wave rolling through him. He pushed through it anyway.
The bandages were loose. Sloppy. Someone had tied them with the care of a drunk medic or a street thug mimicking one. He pressed a hand against the wrap and felt a bit of warmth—not fresh bleeding, he told himself. Not a good sign either.
He took in his surroundings slowly.
The room was small and strange. The air smelled stale. His gaze caught on the mural again, a unicorn rearing on its hindlegs, glittery silver paint and chipped stars in the background. It gleamed faintly even in the dim light, a bizarre, haunting thing that felt entirely at odds with the pounding in his leg and the cuffs cutting into his wrist.
Because he was cuffed. One wrist secured to the bed’s metal headboard. Not so tight he couldn’t move, but definitely enough that he wasn’t not going anywhere fast.
The window across from him was there, but useless. The glass has been smashed out and replaced with planks nailed crookedly across the frame. He could see the outline of light between the boards, a watery gray morning filtering through.
He didn’t hear anything—no voices, no footsteps. Just the creaking of the old house settling around him.
He sat there, silent and still, trying to catch his breath, when the memory came crashing back with sudden force.
The Hollow Hand.
The words hit him like a cold slap to the face, and his entire body tensed in response. The voice in the room, crisp and angry, warning the other that the Hollow Hand had waited too long. It hadn’t just been a drug deal. It hadn’t just been a local ring trying to grow too fast.
The whispers had been right.
The Hollow Hand is real.
It’s not just an old ghost story meant to scare low-level runners. It’s not just something used to blame when things go wrong in the dark undercurrents of Atlantis.
They’re real. They’re here. And they’re planning something.
Riven pressed his head back against the pillow, breathing hard through his nose. He didn’t know how long he’s been out. Didn’t know where he is. Didn’t know if anyone from Virellien even realized he was missing yet.
But Thane needed to know.
Thanehadto know. Whatever grudge was hanging between them, whatever mess Riven had made of things, none of it mattered compared to this.
If the Hollow Hand was involved—really involved—then everything changed. Every deal. Every alliance. Every plan Virellien was building. And if they were working through people like Lareth, poisoning the city with that new, “purified” Soulglass…
Riven yanked once at the handcuffs, but there was no give. He wasn’t getting out without help—or without getting creative.
He closed his eyes, jaw tight. Hehadto get a message out. Had to get free. The only thing that mattered now was making sure Thane knew what he’d stumbled into.
And hoping to hell it wasn’t already too late.
Riven forced himself to breathe slower. In. Out. In. Out.
Panic was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
