Riven stepped onto the mat immediately, his movements fluid as he rolled his sleeves up, revealing the dark ink winding down his left forearm.
“Agreed,” Riven said. “But keep the fur on the inside. I have seen enough of you naked for one day.”
Dane launched himself into motion, a blur of aggression that defied his injury. He fought like a street brawler—efficient and brutal—driving his opponent back with a relentless flurry of hooks to the ribs.
Riven shifted into the space to meet him. He parried the blows with his forearms, absorbing the dull thud of bone on muscle without breaking his stride.
Dane feinted high, then drove a punishing blow straight into Riven’s side—right over the spot where the knife had gone in days ago.
It was a dirty hit. A test.
Riven hissed through his teeth, his face going pale, but he didn’t buckle. When Dane swung for his jaw, putting his entire weight behind the punch to see if he was made of glass, Riven simply caught his wrist in mid-air.
The crack of skin on skin rang out like a gunshot.
Riven’s eyes were merciless, calculating. He twisted his hip, stepping inside the guard to use Dane’s own momentum against him, and swept his legs.
Thud.
Dane hit the mat hard, dust rising into the air.
Riven stood over him, breathing hard, his fist hovering inches from Dane’s face. He held it there for a second—a silent demonstration of what could have happened—before lowering his hand and offering it to Dane.
Dane stared at the open palm. He realised then that Riven had been holding back the entire time; he could have broken the wrist, or ended it in the first three seconds.
He gripped the hand, and Riven hauled him up with a single, powerful pull.
“You’re good,” Dane admitted, wiping sweat from his brow. His voice was grudging, but the hostility had been replaced by a hard-won respect. “For a Consultant.”
“You hit hard,” Riven replied, touching his side gingerly. “For a civil servant.”
Dane straightened his sweat-soaked t-shirt, wincing slightly as his spine protested. He looked at me, then back at Riven. He nodded, a short, quick gesture. It signalled a truce. Riven had held his ground, and for Dane, that resilience outweighed their history.
“Give us two days of this,” Dane said, wiping blood from his lip. “With more practice, we might actually be half-prepared for Highspire.”
“We discussed this,” I said, stepping onto the mat. “Your back shattered less than three weeks ago. The tower is a gauntlet. A hit to the spine ends you.”
“I am standing,” Dane interrupted, his voice hard.
“You favour your left side,” Riven observed dryly. “In a protracted engagement, that hesitation invites death.”
Dane ignored him, locking his amber gaze on me. “They killed Eamon, Selene. The ACD took the case, the city looks the other way, and they bleed people dry in that basement. Nothing in this world matters more than stopping them. I refuse to sit on a bench while you finish the job. I am going.”
I looked at him. The logic of his injury remained sound, yet the fire in his eyes burned absolute. He stated a fact. He intended to follow me into the dark regardless of my consent.
“Fine,” I said. “But you follow the lead. We fight smart.”
“I can do smart,” Dane agreed, a grim smile touching his lips.
I looked between them—the Shadow and the Wolf, battered and breathing hard.
“Then let’s go again,” I said, raising my hands. “Highspire wants a war. Let’s ensure we are ready to win it.”
Later that night,the stone walls of “Luxury Suite A” seemed to press in closer.
Torvin’s joke about the accommodation hadn’t aged well. The room was a monastic cell, stripped to bare rock and shadow. The air carried the metallic tang of the underground river.
I lay on the narrow bed, staring up at the rough-hewn ceiling. My muscles ached with a satisfying burn from the sparring, but my mind refused to settle. It kept replaying the moment the beam of light left my hand. The terrifying volume of it. And then, the silence of a father who wasn’t there to see it.
