Steel bit skin, Auryn hissed as a thin line of blood opened across her collarbone.
Then she froze.
Because the Riven had gone still.
Very still.
Auryn looked down.
And watched in stunned silence as the exact same cut opened across his skin in the same place.
Mirrored.
Perfect.
From that wound seeped blood—not grey like a Glider's.
Silver.
Just like Auryn’s.
For the first time since he had appeared like a specter from a nightmare, the Riven’s expression shifted.
Shock. Disbelief.
The Riven’s gaze flicked between the twin wounds—hers, then his—as though he expected the illusion to unravel if he looked long enough.
It did not.
The silver blood welled at the same pace.
Fell in the same measure.
His grip on the glaive tightened.
Then stilled.
Again, he reached for the braid.
Auryn’s breath caught.
“Do not—”
His fingers brushed the violet ribbon.
The air shifted.
Not with wind.
With something older.
The magic in the braid did not flare. It did not strike. It did not roar.
It simply…was.
Immovable.
Absolute.
