His smile curves, slow and deliberate, the sharpness in it catching like a blade under light. “You are as direct as they said.”
I cross my arms, the gesture deliberate, not defensive. “And you are?”
By the time he reaches the landing, his gaze hasn’t broken from mine. “Riven.” A pause. “Vescari.”
The name hangs between us, heavy, familiar. He watches me like he’s waiting for something — a flicker, a tell — I give him nothing.
“You came alone,” he says at last, his voice low, each word deliberate.
“You sent a sealed envelope, not a hit squad,” I reply. “Didn’t think I needed backup.”
“Most people would’ve ignored it.”
A faint smile pulls at my mouth. “I’m not most people.”
His head tilts slightly, his eyes sharpening in a way that makes the space between us feel smaller. “No. You’re not.”
I take a step closer. “Let’s skip the creepy banter and get to the part where you tell me why I’m here.”
He studies me with his unreadable eyes. Then he nods once and turns. “Follow me.” I hesitate, but I follow.
We step through the arch, and the temperature dips. The hallway isn’t extravagant like the rest of themansion, no sweeping arches or chandeliers. Just dark stone floors, smooth plaster walls, and rows of illuminated glass cases stretching down both sides like a gallery of violence. Weapons. Armor. Burned flags. Ancient currency stamped with empires long dead. Each case glows from within, casting a cold light over his collection. Nothing’s labeled. Nothing explained. Just objects that radiate war—brutal, blood-soaked, and personal.
I slow my pace without meaning to. My gaze snags on a shattered crown. A dagger. A suit jacket folded with bullet holes still crusted dark. Riven says nothing. He just walks ahead like this is routine. I keep following. There’s something about the way the light hits the glass. Like the past is trapped behind it, still watching. Still hungry.
We stop at a black door etched with a faint, jagged design, almost like cracked stone. He places a hand to it. The lock clicks, and he slightly pushes the door open. “After you,” he says, his voice steady and calm. Maybe even slightly predatory? Neither of us are moving or speaking. He breaks the silence, “You’re not used to followingorders,” he murmurs.
“You’re not used to being told to fuck off,” I snap. His smile sharpens in a way that saysgood. Then he opens the door wider. I walk in.
The air in the room is different. The frigid stone is battling with the blazing heat of the fireplace, creating a distinct discomfort I can't put a name to. The sensation in my chest leaves me unsettled. The walls are black wood and glass. One side is lined with books, thick and ancient-looking, with many of the spines cracked. The other is filled with displays, similar to the hallway, featuring items preserved under glass: artifacts, weapons, and scrolls I can’t read. All of it screams power. History. Violence.
He steps past me slowly and moves behind the desk without saying a word. I don’t sit. I stand where I am, arms crossed, chin high. “I’m not here to be impressed,” I say.
“Then why are you here?” he asks, finally looking up at me.
“You tell me. You’re the one leaving notes and pulling strings.”
“You showed up.”
“Curiosity isn't consent!” My voice bursts into the space between us as the words fall into place. “And I don’t owe you shit.”
He leans back in his chair, eyes on mine. “You came because you wanted answers.”
My expression sours. “No. I came to see who the hell thinks they can toy with my life from the shadows.”
“And now that you’ve seen?”
“I’m underwhelmed.”
His mouth twitches with a flicker of interest.
“You’re angry?” he asks as if he wouldn’t believe me even if I said yeah.
“Try violated.”
“You’re flattered,” he says smoothly.
Without hesitation my palm connects with his face.
