He didn't move. Only his eyes tracked every flicker, every breath, a stillness that hummed with menace.
I could feel the others behind me, Jasira muttering frantic prayers and Gideon groaning through clenched teeth.
Wyn took a trembling step closer.
Riven’s gaze flicked back to her. He tilted his head slightly.
“You’re trembling,” he said. “That blade will slip before you use it.”
“Maybe,” she whispered.
I stepped between them.
“Don’t,” I said to her without looking. “He’s too dangerous.”
Riven smiled, the barest curl of a mouth used to silence. “That’s adorable.”
Riven’s cloak hit the ground before his weapons cleared the air.
He unsheathed a long obsidian blade and a narrow parrying dagger of the same style in a single, fluid motion. Both gleamed with strange veins of metal, something older. Something that hummed faintly as he moved.
There was no flourish or fury; the motion was clean, silent, and devastating.
I stepped forward.
Beside me, Gideonstaggeredto his feet. Bloodgushedfrom the wound where the blade had caught him, painting his armor inthick, crimson rivuletsthat dripped onto the stone. But he held his shield high, jaw clenched, defiant even as he swayed on his feet.
Our eyes met for a fraction of a second; no need for words. We’d fought in enough battles to know exactly what the other would do next. The rhythm of survival had its own language, and we spoke it fluently.
He gave me the slightest nod, and I answered with one of my own.
We reached Riven together.
Steel shrieked on steel. My blade met his longsword with a jarring clang, the impact reverberating down my arms.
Gideon lunged, angling for his ribs, and Riven twisted away like smoke, sidestepping with a grace no mercenary should have. His parrying dagger flashed, carving a bloody line across Gideon’s forearm.
Gideon snarled but did not retreat. He slammed his shield into Riven’s chest, the impact hard enough to make him stagger back a step, following with a brutal slash that grazed his jaw, drawing a spatter of blood.
But Riven’s smile widened.
He came at us in a flurry—blade and dagger working in perfect, merciless tandem. I caught one strike on my sword, felt the jolt rattle through my shoulder, while Gideon’s shield turnedaside the next. We moved in a grim rhythm, one striking as the other defended, forcing him to shift, adapt, retreat a step.
Then Riven feinted left.
Gideon bit, stepping to intercept, and Riven’s longsword crashed into his shield with bone-shaking force. Before Gideon could recover, the mercenary pivoted low, his boot smashing into Gideon’s knee.
The blow drove him down hard. He hit the ground with a grunt, shield still up but body refusing to rise.
“Stay down!” I barked, stepping over him as Riven advanced, the heat of the fight pounding in my ears like war drums.
I surged forward, blade arcing up toward his throat. He slammed into my swing, steel screeching against steel, and our blades locked in a vibrating, skull-shattering deadlock. The sheer force of it reverberated through my arms, threatening to tear them from their sockets.
We were chest to chest, breaths mingling in the cold air, each of us straining for an inch of advantage. His eyes burned with something feral, a predator sizing up prey, and I knew mine were no calmer. Sweat and blood slicked our grips, the muscles in my shoulders trembling with the effort to shove him back.
The blades shuddered between us, caught in the small, brutal space where one mistake would mean the end.
His face crowded into mine,unnervinglyclose. What should have been eyes werecoals of smoke and chips of ancient stone, harboring a darkness that spoke ofsomething primordial and unknowablebeneath.
