The man didn’t speak as he led Riven quickly but carefully through what must have once been a grand estate. Long corridors stretched in all directions, lit only by faint emergency bulbs or the occasional slant of light bleeding in through dirty, half-covered windows. The air was heavy with age and neglect—old dust, dead air, the kind of stillness that clung to places long forgotten.
Riven tried to take in what he could. The estate had been empty for years, maybe decades. The furniture was draped in yellowed sheets, the dust underfoot thick enough that their footsteps carved obvious trails. If anyone came looking, their path would be clear. Not ideal, but at least it meant the place wasn’t crawling with guards.
Still, there were people.
They’d seen one—a figure moving down the far end of a hall, his gait casual, unaware. Riven had barely registered the threat before the man beside him surged forward and dispatched him, silently and efficiently. He caught the guard by the neck and wrenched hard. The sound was soft but unmistakable.Snap.The body slumped.
Riven stared a beat too long. The man’s movements weren’t panicked or clumsy; this wasn’t a civilian House agent fumbling in a crisis. This was a professional. Someone who had done this kind of thing before.
The man turned back, eyes sharp but unreadable. “We move,” he whispered. Riven nodded. No more questions. Not now.
But his body had its own limits. The wound in his leg was worse than before—throbbing, seeping warmth down his thigh despite the crude bandaging. Each step felt unsteady, and the adrenaline that had carried him this far was beginning to fail. He felt brittle, like one wrong move might crack him in half.
The man noticed. Without a word, he offered his shoulder.
Riven hesitated, then leaned in. He hated how much he needed the help, but with the extra support, they moved faster, smoother. He could finally focus on the path ahead instead of trying not to collapse. They passed what must have been a nursery—faded paint on the walls, old toys scattered under a sheeted rocking chair—then a sitting room littered with brokenglass. No recent use. Just ghosts and dust—always the dust. Every breath tasted of decay.
Riven tracked their route. Right out of the bedroom. Left down the first hall. Through a door with chipped teal paint. He committed each turn to memory in case they got separated, in case he had to run, in case he had to come back.
Because even now—despite the pain, the panic, the gunshot wound dragging him down—he hadn’t forgotten what mattered. He hadn’t forgotten what he’d overheard.
The Hollow Hand has waited too long for its moment to allow it to be undone by recklessness.
The rumors were real. The threat was real. And Thane had to know.
Which meant Riven had to survive.
They paused at the top of a stairwell, the man steadying him with a firm hand. “Three more guards below,” he said quietly. “If we’re careful, we can make it to the loading dock.”
Riven clenched his jaw. “Definecareful.”
The man didn’t respond, just helped him start down the stairs. Each step sent pain arcing up his thigh—sharp and electric—but Riven welcomed it. Pain meant he was still alive. Still moving. Still fighting. And if he could keep doing that, step by step, breath by breath, then maybe he’d live long enough to put this puzzle in Thane’s hands. Even if Thane didn’t want it. Even if Thane didn’t want him.
They made it down the stairs without incident, but the moment they reached the ground floor, the balance shifted. A voice shouted somewhere nearby—distant, but too close to ignore. It had to be directed at them.
The man cursed under his breath and pulled Riven faster down a hallway that split into two dark corridors. He chose the left. Riven didn’t ask why. He just followed.
They moved faster now, tension drawn taut between them like wire. Riven’s heart slammed against his ribs, the flickering emergency lights ahead barely enough to show the outline of a door at the far end of the hall.
Footsteps thundered behind them.
“Shit,” the man hissed. “We have to run.”
Riven didn’t answer. He pushed off the wall and forced his body into motion. The burst of speed sent pain shrieking through his thigh. He felt the crude stitching rip, a hot tear followed by a fresh bloom of wet warmth. Blood soaked into his pants again, and the rhythm of his run collapsed into a ragged, limping stagger. He bit down on a cry.
No noise. No mistakes. No more chances.
They burst out the side door into the cold night air, lungs burning. Riven nearly collapsed, but the man half-dragged him across an overgrown gravel path toward the tree line, where a low, nondescript car waited, barely visible in the dark.
The man reached it first, yanked open the passenger door, and helped Riven into the seat. Blood smeared the frame. Riven clung to the console to stay upright, vision graying at the edges.
“It’s pre-programmed,” the man said quickly, voice low and urgent. “GPS is locked to the Virellien estate. You don’t have to do anything—just follow the prompts. Keep your head down until you’re out of range, then let the autopilot take over.”
Riven stared at him, chest heaving. “You’re not coming?”
The man shook his head. “I can’t. If I disappear now, they’ll know. My cover’s too deep.”
Riven opened his mouth to argue, but the man leaned in, eyes fierce. “You have what you need. You’ve heard enough. Get it back to them. Tell Thane everything.”
