I scanned the spines, words swimming into meaningless patterns, while the air around me grew stagnant and still, pressing against my eardrums like held breath.
And then it started.
The burn.
A sudden, searing heat beneath my collarbone drove the air from my lungs. It mirrored the moment the lift doors opened in the bullpen yesterday. Static crawled across my skin—a metallic charge that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
He was here.
A shade blurred at the far end of the aisle. Too swift for Dane. Too tall. Too… contained.
My breath knotted in my throat.
Riven Ashborne.
He stood silhouetted in a thin spill of light from the next aisle. One hand rested on a shelf, the other held an open book. His head was bowed in concentration, black hair tied back, catching the dim glow. His profile was angular, his posture holding a stillness that made the surrounding air feel chaotic by comparison.
A jolt went through me—not just anger, not just danger. Something deeper. A pressure that was almost… familiar. My mark gave a hard, warning spike of heat. The scar knew him even if I didn’t want to.
I slowed, muscles locking up. I was unarmed—Archives rules—but my body reacted as if I were cornered. Though, looking at him, I doubted a weapon would help against whatever Umbrakynn skills he had anyway.
I started moving. Slow. Careful. One quiet step after another, using the towering shelves as cover. My heart hammered against my ribs. Catch him. Confront him. Make him explain why the shard vanished the moment he appeared.
He closed the book with a soft thud. He remained focused on the shelf, his gaze never wavering as he turned into the next aisle.
I surged forward, abandoning stealth, reaching the corner in three strides and swinging around it, ready to corner him.
The aisle was empty.
I skidded to a halt, boots squeaking on the floorboards.
“What?” I whispered.
It was impossible. The aisle was twenty metres long. There were no doors. No alcoves. Just an unbroken canyon of books. He should have been there. I should have seen his back. I should have heard his footsteps retreating on the creaky wood.
But there was nothing.
Dead air. Not the quiet of a library, but a vacuum—an unnatural muting of the world. I held my breath, straining my ears for the slightest sound—a footstep, a shifting stance, even the rustle of fabric.
I stepped forward, the hair on my arms standing up. The gloom at the far end of the row wasn’t sitting right. It looked… viscous. Like ink spilled in water, unravelling and dissolving into the floorboards as I watched.
My breath hitched. I turned in a slow circle, scanning the narrow gaps between stacks. The magic around me buzzed, low and insistent. Frustration clawed up my spine. Where the hell did he go?
I faced the empty space where he’d stood, pressing my palm to the ache under my collarbone. The sensation intensified, curling like a smoke ring around my throat.
Then, the air directly behind me dropped ten degrees.
“Looking for something, Detective?”
The voice wasright at my ear—lethal as a blade.
My head snapped up. My breath caught. I spun around.
He was there, behind me, standing right inside my personal space, so close our arms nearly touched.
He held a closed book loosely in one hand, his posture infuriatingly relaxed for someone who had just materialised from the shadows.
Up close, the terrifying blur from the station resolved into something dangerously specific. He was taller than me by a few inches, lean but clearly muscular beneath a charcoal suit that fit with irritating perfection. Jet-black hair was pulled back severely from his face, highlighting high cheekbones and a short, dark beard that framed a jawline cut from stone.
