Suddenly, Daxon moved.
His powerful hand clamped down on Riven's right wrist and, with a cold, decisive motion, twisted it in the opposite direction.
CRACK.
The sound of bone breaking echoed softly yet unmistakably through the silent room.
Riven held his breath, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ground together. His eyes widened, his entire body trembling violently. The tip of the bone pierced through his wrist, blood spilling out and warming his cold skin. Flesh twisted, his fingers lost all control, and the dagger he was holding slipped from his grasp and sank into the floor with a soft cthak.
The pain was searing—like fire ripping through his arm from the inside out—but Riven didn't scream. He bit his tongue, forcing back the howl clawing up his throat. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, not from weakness, but because his body was truly at its limit.
Yet even in that agony, his mind stayed focused.
His left hand had been ready.
And in that split second—while Daxon was still preoccupied with crushing his right wrist—Riven struck with his left hand. Fast. Sudden. Deadly.
SLASH!
The dagger he'd kept hidden plunged into Daxon's neck, just below the jawline, slicing deep toward the artery.
Blood burst out—hot, metallic, and sharp-scented—spraying across Riven's face and chest. Daxon's face froze in utter shock—his eyes wide, body stiff as if struck by lightning. For a moment, he just stood there, unmoving, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
Then slowly, his grip slackened. His hand fell away from Riven's shattered wrist.
Blood continued to pour from the wound in his neck, staining the bed in deep crimson.
He stopped moving.
A nobleman. The proud head of House Blackthorn. Daxon Blackthorn was dead, killed by an unknown commoner with nothing left to lose.
Riven stood frozen, his body trembling.
His left hand still gripped the dagger, now dripping with blood. His right wrist was mangled beyond recognition, burning with pain that refused to fade.
His breaths came in shallow gasps, his eyes locked on the corpse in front of him.
One down.
One to go.
And after that… Melly would be free.
Riven exhaled slowly—the breath he'd been holding since the moment he stepped into the room. Cold night air filled his lungs, but it couldn't soothe the fire that seared through his battered body. He glared at the corpse one last time, then lowered his eyes and slowly pulled the dagger from Daxon's throat. Blood trailed down the blade, flowing like unshed tears from a wound that would never heal.
He staggered back a step, then slumped down against the side of the bed, his strength seemingly drained along with the dying man's life. With his good hand, he clutched at his ruined wrist. The bones felt crushed in multiple places, the surrounding flesh torn, swollen, and dripping with blood.
Damn it… he cursed inwardly, his face twisting as pain clawed at him like poisoned needles. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to calm the aftershocks of what had just happened.
That had been close.
Far too close.
If he'd been just a second too slow or his reflexes even slightly duller, he would've been the one lying dead on the floor.
Riven stared at Daxon's now lifeless body. With one glance, he knew this man hadn't been ordinary. There was pressure, a strange, dormant force that had lingered within him, and Riven recognized it. A Lawbearer. Likely a Marked Soul, or even a Runed Core.
It explained everything. The instincts. The reflexes. The speed with which he had opened his eyes when danger approached—despite Riven having moved silently, like a shadow.
The memory made Riven's breath quicken.
He remembered his fight with the dying Mordune intruder—how that man, even while on the brink of death, had almost killed him. The pressure that man had emitted… was exactly what he'd felt when standing this close to Daxon Blackthorn.
If he had fought that man head-on under normal conditions… he wouldn't have stood a chance. No matter how fast or clever he was, he would have lost.
No tricks. No ambush. No surprise strike.
Just death.
And Melly… would never have been saved.
The thought made his fingers tighten around his bleeding wrist, pain flaring up as a reminder that he was still alive.
He opened his eyes.
No time to reflect.
There was still one more.
Darien. That wretched noble boy who had tortured him. Who had dared to even think something vile about his sister.
Riven raised his head, his gaze locking onto the bedroom door.
His body was broken. His spirit battered.
But his eyes…
His eyes still burned with a cold determination that nothing could extinguish.
With slow, nearly soundless steps, Riven moved down the dark hallway, the faint moonlight seeping in through the windows barely illuminating his path. His body ached with every movement, but the fire in his eyes remained unwavering.
Before leaving Daxon's room, he had torn a strip of cloth from the old curtains hanging by the window. Using one hand, he had wrapped it tightly around his broken wrist. Straightening the bone and binding it nearly made him scream, but he gritted his teeth and bore it. There was no room for weakness.
His right hand was now useless. His fingers numb, his palm ice-cold, and even the slightest twitch sent pain shooting up his arm. But he still had one hand left and that would be enough.
He crept through the hallway, pausing at one of the doors. With his left hand, he tested the handle. Locked. He crouched slightly, peering through the narrow gap between the door and the frame.
His breath caught.
Inside, Melly lay asleep on a small bed. The dim glow of the oil lamp bathed her face in warm light. Her breathing was steady. She wasn't bound. She wasn't hurt.
Riven exhaled softly. For the first time in what felt like forever, something heavy inside his chest eased. Just seeing her unharmed peeled away layers of suffocating fear.
But it wasn't over.
They still had to escape. And before that, there was one last thing to do.
He continued down the corridor, his left hand gripping the kitchen knife he'd taken earlier, its edge still sharp and cold.
The last door was unlocked. He pushed it open slowly, careful not to make a sound.
The room was dark, but he could clearly see the figure lying in the bed—Darien Blackthorn.
The young noble's face was peaceful in sleep. But to Riven, it was the face of pain, humiliation, and fury—the culmination of everything he had endured. A red mark, still bandaged, bloomed beneath the man's right eye—Riven's bite still fresh and raw.
Riven stood at the threshold, eyes fixed on the one who had tortured him and dared to fantasize about his sister. The knife in his hand trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the strain of holding it through all his pain.
He stepped forward.
Every step a decision.
And tonight, that decision would end in blood.