He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself. His expression went distant, his focus fixed on a horror only he could see as the moments before he nearly died played out behind his eyelids.
“His strength… it was unnatural,” he whispered. “It was alien compared to a shifter’s power—borrowed. Like something was fuelling him from the inside. This sounds daft, but… something was burning under his skin. An energy. A constant hum. And then a throb, like a heartbeat, but magical. Before it all went black.”
Borrowed power. It aligned perfectly with Jack Preston’s whispers in the Pit—the unstable injection tools and the transfer of stolen magic. I remembered the broker’s nervous hunch and the glowingsigil burning on the neck of that fighter. It was a weapon, and it had almost killed my partner.
His words confirmedmy worst suspicions, but I kept the truth buried. I wasn’t going to tell him about the box of Daniel Thorne’s secrets stashed under my floorboards, or that the name Korenth Vhail was now written in every shadow I saw. Dane had only just clawed his way back to the light; he didn’t need the weight of a twenty-year conspiracy while he was still pinned to a hospital bed. I’d wait until he was strong enough to hold a gun before I made him a target.
He nodded slowly, his eyes drooping. “You going to find who's behind this?”
“I’m going to finish it.”
Dane watched me. The sedation dragged at him, but his amber eyes remained sharp, cutting through the haze. He saw the tension in my shoulders, the way I was already mentally halfway out the door to hunt down the threat.
“I’m grounded, Sel,” he rasped, the reality of the bed pressing between us. “But my head still works.”
“I know.” I squeezed his hand, careful of the IV lines. “You focus on the recovery. Let me handle the legwork.”
“Deal. But keep the line open,” he muttered, his fingers curling weakly around mine. “I can’t watch your back if you go silent.”
He understood I had to hunt. He just needed to know I wasn’t running away.
“You’re just a call away, Dane. Always.”
“Damn right,” he breathed, letting his eyes close.
I stayed a bit longer, letting the quiet presence of friendship soothe the raw edges of my fear. When the nurse arrived to check on Dane, I left.
I slipped out into the corridor, my footsteps echoing against the sterile walls. The weight of what I’d discovered was immovable, apressure my depleted magic wasn’t ready to face. I leaned against the plaster, closing my eyes against the cloying scent of antiseptic.
Riven. He was the only way into that fortress.
The name echoed in my thoughts, stark and unwelcome. He stopped me from exploding. He grounded me. He knew Highspire. He saw the Umbrakynn in the fight pit. He understood this kind of dark magic. He had answers I didn’t. He had resources I lacked.
The admission tasted like ash. Pride burned in my throat, but beneath it lay a sliver of brutal logic.
I needed him.
My hand dipped into my pocket, seeking the note. I fished it out, the thin paper soft against my thumb. It was creased from my grip, but the spidery script remained clear. His number.
I hated that I needed to do this. But there was no choice. There was Dane. There were the victims who never made it home. And there was the creeping, unstoppable darkness of Highspire.
I glaredat the crumpled paper. Riven’s number. My thumbs hovered over the glowing screen of my phone, hesitating.
Gloam Room. Back booths. Need to talk.
I smashed send, the words feeling as stale and forced as the air in my flat. He’d probably respond with a single, cryptic symbol. Or nothing at all. Either way, the message hung in the digital ether, a grudging request.
The Gloam Room was pulsing, the Sunday night crowd spilling out onto the pavement. Purple light bled across the matte black façade, a neon bruise against the gloom. Two Varkyn bouncers nodded me through, their eyes sliding over me without interest.
Inside, the air was thick with spilled drinks, cheap perfume, and the thumping bass of escapism. Humans packed the sunken dance floor, a tangled mass under the strobing lights.
I skirted the heaving crowd and headed for the back lounges. Myusual spot was empty—a curved booth of muted obsidian velvet tucked deep into the shadows.
I slid in, checking my phone. A single word on the screen:Confirmed.
He was coming.
I ran the calculations again. Highspire didn’t send a consultant like Riven Ashborne for a cargo theft case. He was a containment measure.
