The shattered window still glinted at the edge of Riven's vision as he stepped closer, careful not to crunch the scattered glass underfoot. Warm daylight spilled through the jagged opening, carried on a breeze tinged with the metallic tang of blood and the distant clash of steel. It swept over his face, prickling his skin as he gripped the broken frame and leaned out.
Then he froze, blinking in surprise.
He was higher up—second story, by the look of it. The courtyard stretched out below, far enough that a fall would've been unpleasant, if not worse. That didn't make sense. A prison cell on the second floor? He frowned. In his head, they were always underground—dark, damp, filled with dripping pipes and rats. Probably something he'd picked up from too many books, where villains always threw people in basement dungeons. Apparently, this noble preferred a view.
Below, chaos reigned.
A crowd had gathered in the courtyard—dozens of figures cloaked in black, faces hidden behind hoods and half-masks that covered their mouths. They surrounded two others who stood apart, their grey cloaks and stark white masks setting them apart from the swarm. The air was alive with motion, every swing of a blade flashing under the afternoon sun, every shout swallowed by the roar of battle.
Riven narrowed his eyes. The black-robed figures pressed inward like a tide, encircling the two masked fighters. But even from this distance, he could tell these two weren't ordinary. Every motion was clean, efficient, practiced. One fought with a silver rapier that glimmered like liquid light, weaving through gaps in the chaos with precision. The other—
Riven's breath caught.
That weapon—he knew it instantly. The massive, gothic greatsword was almost as wide as his own shoulders, its blade a dark blend of grey and black, edges faintly wrapped in a reddish aura. It cleaved through the mob with brutal ease, scattering bodies like grass before a storm. No one else swung a blade like that.
"Roman…" he muttered, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Of course it was him. No one else would have come for him this fast.
But his eyes drifted to the other one—the rapier wielder. They were smaller, slimmer, moving with sharp, fluid grace. Each thrust and step carried a rhythm he recognized far too well. Sylvia. The thought came unbidden, twisting in his chest. The stance, the timing—it was her, it had to be. But why in the world would she be here? None of this made sense.
Riven's gaze shifted again, tracing the edge of the fight until he found the one he'd been hoping to see.
Off to the side, well outside the fray, stood the nobleman. Silent. Watching. Satisfaction written plainly across his face. His pristine white coat fluttered in the wind—open, exposing a chest and arms bound tightly in fresh, blood-stained bandages. The wounds were real, recent, and Riven's lips curved into a sly, quiet smile.
"Good," he murmured under his breath. "At least it hurt."
Beside the noble loomed the Fanglion. The creature's fur rippled in the light, its amber eyes burning with the same feral intensity Riven remembered. He'd faced it once before—briefly, violently—and though the memory still tightened his gut, seeing it now brought only a grim kind of comfort. In his mind, it wasn't the Fanglion at all, but the Galeclaw he'd already slain. That thought steadied him.
He leaned further out, the wind tugging at his hair as he took in the scene one more time—the black-cloaked mob clashing with the two masked fighters, the nobleman standing untouched, the Fanglion waiting like a shadow at his side.
His pulse quickened, the air thick with tension. This wasn't just chaos anymore. This was a reckoning.
Before he could chase the thought further, his gaze flicked back to the nobleman—just in time to catch his expression tighten into a scowl. The man raised a hand.
Shit.
A blade of wind shot from his palm, sharp and fast, carving a line through the air. It tore across the garden, heading straight for the two masked figures.
Riven's breath caught—but Roman had already noticed. With one clean step forward, he brought his great sword up in a fluid arc. The gust of wind hit the flat of the blade and shattered, splitting apart like water around a rock.
But there was no time to breathe. A second threat followed instantly—mana-infused arrows, dozens of them, rained down from above. They shimmered as they fell, humming with power, leaving burning trails of blue-white light in the sky.
Riven couldn't see the archers, but he guessed they had to be on the rooftops. Hidden. Organized.
From beneath the smaller grey-cloaked figure's robe, a faint shape rolled forward—a bluish-turquoise sphere, about the size of a fist. It glided across the ground in silence, leaving a faint trail of frost in its wake. The air around it grew colder with every inch, the stone beneath paling as thin layers of ice began to creep outward.
The sphere slowed to a stop, hovering just above the ground. Frost continued to spread, thickening, rising—first an uneven mound, then rough limbs of ice began to form, layer by layer. The growth was steady, deliberate, and almost unnatural in its stillness. Within seconds, the shape stood more than ten feet tall: a knight of ice, its body jagged and crystalline, its surface glinting with shades of blue and white.
In its frozen grip rested a massive great sword of the same turquoise ice, edges rimmed with mist that curled and hissed in the cold air. The creature straightened, every movement sharp and heavy, like the creaking of a glacier brought to life.
The creature stepped forward, intercepting the barrage. Arrows pinged off its armor, some bouncing harmlessly, others cracking through—but each wound was sealed within seconds, new frost knitting across the damage like it was alive.
It stood like a wall between the rooftop threat and the masked duo.
Riven's eyes widened, breath stalling again in his chest.
Only one person I know could summon that.
It' has to be Sylvia.
His thoughts tangled in a rush—shock, relief, confusion—and then, strangely, a flicker of gratitude. But that warmth vanished just as quickly as it came, replaced by urgency.
He couldn't just stand here. Not while they fought. Not while they risked everything for him.
He stepped back from the window, breath shaky, and glanced down at his right arm. Still bound tightly to his chest, immobilized in a crude sling. The pain had dulled to a distant throb, but the damage was real. His fingers refused to curl. He tried again anyway—nothing. Not even a twitch.
He gritted his teeth.
This is not ideal, he thought grimly.
He wasn't at full strength. Not even close. But it didn't matter.
Amber and pink light flickered beneath his skin, crawling through his veins like fire chasing a fuse. His mana stirred—sluggish, reluctant—but it responded. He could feel how little of it remained, the strain in his core as it fought to obey.
But it would have to be enough.
He couldn't let them do this alone.
Without another thought, Riven vaulted through the shattered window, the wind whipping past his face as the ground rushed up to meet him. He twisted midair, channeling mana through his legs just before impact, letting it flare along his limbs to take the brunt of the fall.
He hit the stone path hard—boots slamming against it—but rolled smoothly, the mana dispersing the shock through his body. Shards of glass scattered and crunched beneath him as he came to a crouched stop.
Sunlight bathed the courtyard in a golden wash, warm against his skin, the scent of dew-damp grass and metallic blood still lingering in the air. The yard was clear—for now. No one had noticed him yet.
He ran.
Mana surged through him—pink and amber streaks racing down his limbs, dimmer than before but still burning with urgency. Then—clicks. A sharp, mechanical whrr, followed by the unmistakable pulse of displaced air.
Instinct screamed.
Riven didn't wait to see what was coming. He blinked.
Mana twisted space.
Once.
Twice.
He reappeared beside Sylvia and Roman in twin bursts of warped light, breath coming in quick, uneven gulps. His pool dropped lower—twenty percent and falling fast.
Sylvia turned, surprise flashing in her eyes. "Riven?" she gasped, voice tight with disbelief. She clearly hadn't expected him to escape and make it here on his own.
Before he could say anything, the air split with a shriek of pressure and a whistling rush of death.
Another attack.
He barely turned when Roman stepped forward. The man moved like a force of nature—fluid and devastating. His black great sword flashed, both hands steady on the hilt as the blade swept down in a vicious arc. Energy crackled along its edge, that deep reddish hue flaring. The wind-blades met it—and shattered, torn mid-air like dry leaves in a storm.
Riven blinked, heart hammering in his chest. These weren't the same churning spheres the nobleman had used before. The shape was different—sharper. Where the earlier attacks left behind savage deep cuts even once blocked, these Roman could intercept more cleanly. But they still carried that same storm-born violence. A little slower. A little less destructive. But no less lethal.
And that told him everything.
The beast before—the eagle—had been at least Rank 4. But this one, the Fanglion… it had to be still around Rank 3. Still a monster, still incredibly strong. But not the same class.
Roman turned slightly. "You alright, kid?" he asked, voice steady but shadowed with concern.
"I'm alright," Riven replied quickly, trying to make it sound stronger than it felt. The answer seemed to ease Roman somewhat—his shoulders loosened just a touch. Next his gaze dropped to Riven's arm, still bound and useless. Riven caught the look and spoke before the man could question it.
"It was a gamble. A risky one—but it worked."
Roman didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. The sound of rapid footsteps drew both their attention.
The hooded figures wielding a plethora of weapons were closing in—fast.
Roman moved without another word. He stepped forward and brought his sword down in a brutal arc. A single cleave bit into the front line of the attackers, painting the grass behind them red.
"We'll handle this," Sylvia said, her voice calm but cold. Focused. She spun on her heel and strode toward the second group, rapier flashing in the sun.
To the side, her bonded creature moved. A towering guardian of ice, ten feet tall, its massive limbs groaning with shifting frost. Arrows still rained down, splintering harmlessly across its surface. The few that left cracks were sealed moments later, thick veins of fresh ice knitting the damage.
The beast stepped forward, slow and inexorable. Each footfall was a thud of weight on stone and soil. When enemies got close, it lashed out with terrifying force, each swing clearing the space like a wrecking ball made of winter.
It was a fortress of cold, and it stood between them and the rooftop barrage—unmoving, unwavering, unbreakable.