“And look at the cost,” he rasped.
“I don’t care about the cost,” I said fiercely. “I’m still here. You’re still here.”
I reached up, gently resting my palm against his cheek.
The touch shattered the last of his resistance. He exhaled a long, shuddering breath and slumped forward, burying his face in the crook of my neck, collapsing into me as if he could no longer carry the weight alone.
I held him tight. I could feel the heat of him through the layers of clothes.
The magic woke up between us. It shifted into a low resonance, a grounding comfort. His shadow curled around my light, cradling it.We stayed like that for a long time, anchored together, breathing in each other’s survival.
Slowly, reluctantly, Riven withdrew.
His eyes were clearer now. The despair had receded, replaced by a ruthless exhaustion.
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face. His thumb lingered on my cheekbone, his skin rough and warm.
“Sleep,” he whispered against my hair. “I’ll be right here.”
A nod was all I could manage, my throat too tight for words. A selfish part of me wanted to pull him back, to stay anchored to him on the cold stone until the brutal reality of our situation faded entirely. But the crack in his composure was already sealing over, and I understood he needed the solitude to rebuild his defences.
I turned away, my legs stiff as lead, and forced myself towards the thick oak door across the hall. At the threshold, I glanced back. Riven remained there, leaning against his own doorframe—a silent sentinel in the dim light, watching me go.
I slipped inside, the latch clicking softly shut, and pressed my forehead against the cool wood, listening.
Footsteps crossed the stone floor outside—measured, slow—followed by the sound of his door closing.
Darkness filled the room, but I wasn’t truly alone. The charge of his magic still buzzed against my skin—a silent promise that he was just on the other side of the wall.
And tonight, that was all I really needed.
THIRTY-TWO
Selene
The “Luxury Suite” lived up to none of its title. The stone bed was hard enough to realign a spine, and the air held the damp chill of the deep underground. I stared at a ceiling carved from raw rock. It was a tomb.
Which, considering who built this place, wasn’t entirely off the table.
I sat up, rolling my neck. A crack echoed in the silence, loud as a gunshot. My body felt stiff, but the magic in my veins was quiet, a low murmur rather than the chaotic distortion that had been plaguing me for days. Riven was close, but the room across the hall was silent.
I dragged myself to the shower block at the end of the hall. Torvin was right about the plumbing’s personality; the pipes rattled like a dying engine, but the water was hot enough to scour the tunnel filth from my skin.
Clean, at least in body, I returned to the room. The alternative clothing provided was a roughly woven tunic folded on the chair. I ignored it. Dragging on yesterday’s skinny trousers and jumper feltlike sliding back into a second skin. They were stale, but I preferred the grit I knew.
The scent of toasted oats and tea drifted down the corridor, stronger than the smell of damp earth. It drew me out of the room and down the winding stone passage towards the central atrium.
The atrium opened up before me, vast and resonant, illuminated by wavering lanterns. It was a fortress, a bunker wrapped into one architectural impossibility.
At one of the long stone tables near the centre, two figures sat amidst the emptiness.
Goran looked like he had been carved from the same rock as the walls—immobile, massive, and terrifyingly still.
Next to him, Dane looked startlingly human.
I paused at the edge of the atrium, blinking. Yesterday, Dane had been broken, grey-faced, and barely holding onto consciousness. Today, he was sitting upright, his posture straight, buttering a piece of dark bread with the focus of a surgeon.
His colour had returned, the deathly pallor replaced by his usual tanned ruggedness. He looked tired, yes, but not wrecked.
