I looked at Riven. He stood motionless, staring at the spot where the iron box had been. He looked untethered.
“Riven,” I whispered.
He blinked, the mask sliding back into place, though it was thinner now. He nodded once, and we followed the twins into the dark.
The Cistern was a maze of centuries-old masonry, the air cool and still. Pale crystals were set into the high archedceilings, casting long, watery shadows against the rough-hewn walls.
The scale of the place felt wrong for the few people we had seen. The corridors were wide, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps that no longer fell. We passed open alcoves filled with solid oak tables and empty chairs, accumulating dust in the gloom. It felt like a hollowed-out city, built for a population that had long since faded away.
Torvin kept up a steady stream of chatter, his voice bouncing off the walls.
“Don’t mind the dust in the East Wing,” he said over his shoulder. “Karys was supposed to clear it out a decade ago, but she’s been ‘busy’.”
“I was busy keeping us alive while you were learning card tricks,” Karys said dryly, not breaking stride.
“Important card tricks,” Torvin corrected. “Morale is critical when the world is ending.”
He stopped at a junction where the corridor split.
“Alright, survivors. This is you.” He pointed to two solid wooden doors directly across the hall from each other.
“Luxury suites A and B. There are fresh linens inside, and the water in the basins is… mostly warm. The royal spa—or as Karys calls it, the shower block—is at the very end of the hall to the right. The plumbing has a bit of a personality, so try not to startle it.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Torvin’s grin softened into something more genuine. “Get some sleep. We’ll hold the perimeter.”
He nudged his sister, and they retreated back down the hall, their bickering fading into the distance.
Stillness rushed back in to fill the space.
We were alone.
Riven didn’t move towards his door. He leaned slumped against the rough stone wall, letting the masonry take his full weight, his head tipped back against the rock. He closed his eyes.
In the dim light of the orbs, he looked devastated. His shirt wasstained with sweat and grime from the tunnels. His hands, resting on his knees, trembled.
I watched him, my heart aching.
The crushing weight of the events radiated off him—the destruction of the Manor, the death of Eamon, the return to the place of his exile. He looked like a man who wanted to unzip his own skin and step out of it.
I walked over to him and I stepped into his space.
Riven opened his eyes. They were blue, but dull, the magic inside sluggish and dim.
“I should have seen the ambush,” he murmured. “I should have known Varessia would be watching the Manor.”
“You couldn’t have known,” I said.
“I am supposed to know,” his voice cracked. “That is what I am. A weapon. A strategist. And yet…”
He looked up, and for the first time, I saw the devastation he was holding back. The cracks in his composure ran deep, revealing a hollow, desperate exhaustion.
“Every time I try to save something, it breaks.”
I moved closer, erasing the small distance between us.
“You didn’t break me,” I whispered. “You saved me, Riven. In the alley. In the lift. At the Manor. You saved me.”
