I stepped toward the edge of the ridge, sword still slick in my grip.
Then I heard it.
Slow, deliberate clapping from above.
A shape moved out of the shadows near a cragged ledge overlooking the ruins. A man, cloaked in gray and black, with a hood thrown back and a glint of iron at his shoulder.
He moved like smoke.
Confident. Leisurely.
“You’re still good,” he said. His voice was quiet, but the night carried it clearly as steel.
He looked at me.
“But let’s see how you fare against me.”
Then he stepped forward into the torchlight.
And I saw his eyes. Gray as ash and cold as stone.
Riven.
My stomach turned to ice.
There was no mistaking him now. The torchlight flicked across his face, too harsh, too pale. His cheekbones cut like blades beneath stretched skin. A scar ran from the corner of his left eye down to his jaw, and though his hands hung at his sides, loose and unthreatening, he radiated danger like a coiled spring.
His presence permeatedthe space, chilling the air and stealing the warmth
“I expected more,”he murmured, his voice a silken thread of menace. “Frankly, I’m rather underwhelmed.”
He looked at me.
He wasn’t interested in the others. Just me.
“You’ve gotten better, though, boy,” he added. “Cleaner. Calmer.”
I didn’t answer. I clenched my fingers so tightly around the hilt of my sword that the metal bit into my palm.
He smirked slightly. “But you still hesitate when it counts.”
He lifted his right hand, palm open, casual.
The earth beneath the ledge trembled slightly in awareness. The suggestion of pressure.
My grip tightened.
“Why are you here?” I demanded.
Riven tilted his head. “Oh, you know. To observe. To evaluate.”
His eyes flicked past me.
To Wyn.
She stood a few paces behind, stiff with tension. Her cloak was still askew from the fight, cheeks pale, eyes locked on him like she couldn’t decide whether to run or burn him down where he stood.
The air near her shoulder shimmered faintly, not yet a flame. The echo of what lived within her.
