Chapter 189: Ten Seconds

An hour later Riven crouched on a tiled roof two streets from the Laurel House, palace bells still ringing. The line of light on his wrist pulsed against his pulse, faint as a moth tapping a lantern glass.

“I’m at the door,” Nix whispered through the line, “the hallway is empty, the ward is humming.”

“Don’t touch anything yet, let me hear it first,” he answered.

Her whisper turned grumpy, “Hurry up, my ankles are getting cold out here.”

He closed his eyes, letting Open Account carry the ward’s rhythm into his chest, one pulse per ten seconds. Between each pulse sat a silent beat of nothing, a held breath where the Weaver’s thread forgot itself briefly.

‘Ten seconds up, ten seconds down, with a gap in the middle. That gap is a beat I can call.’

She leaned against the doorframe, “Is it loud out there, or does it just whisper?”

“It sounds like a lullaby sung by someone who hates children,” he said, “with perfect manners.”

Nix tested the latch with one gloved finger, the ward hurling her backward ten seconds like a slapped cat. She landed on her feet in front of the door, scowling, hair standing on end from the crackling static.

“That was extremely impolite,” she hissed.

“That was the test, now I know the period,” he said, grinning into the dark.

Riven began to count under his breath, thumb tapping Overdue’s guard in time with the ward’s slow heartbeat. Rooftops stretched between them, lanterns swaying, the whole city holding its breath for reasons he could not fix.

‘Of course. Somebody always wanders onto the roof in the middle of a heist.’

A slate scraped behind him as a Crownguard scout hauled himself over the ridge, crossbow in his fist. Riven plucked the weapon away before the man found his balance, then pointed politely at the nearest chimney.

“Evening,” he said, tossing the crossbow down the gutter, “I’m counting, so please keep your voice down.”

“You are under arrest,” the scout whispered, hopelessly.

“Not tonight… sit on that chimney and think about your choices.”

The scout sat on the chimney and hugged his knees, shaking, as Overdue’s flat hovered near his helmet. One gentle tap later he slumped over with the dignity of a flour sack, leaving the count undisturbed.

“Nine and ten, reset,” he murmured, “when I say now you move, no matter what you hear.”

“What if the gap is shorter than you think?”

“Then you get thrown back again, I buy you a very large pastry.”

“Two pastries minimum, with the sugar on top,” Nix said, rolling her shoulders slowly.

[ Open Account: Nix | Ward pulse: 10.0 seconds | Gap: one beat after reset ]

The thread between their wrists tightened, her breathing syncing with his until both rhythms sat on one count. Riven felt the Weaver’s ward swell, crest, collapse, then pause for exactly the length of a single blink.

“Now,” he said.

Nix’s hand closed on the latch, Every Door flaring in a gold ring all around the lock. The mechanism clicked open without a sound as she slipped through the gap sideways like a shadow.

“I’m in,” she breathed, “the ward just threw nobody at nobody.”

“Tell me what you see before you touch anything else,” Riven said.

“A man who loves himself, mostly… who built a shrine to the habit, with proper lighting.”

The suite blazed with gilt, a banner hung over the bed, a portrait of Dorian above the hearth. Nix wrinkled her nose at the shrine, then crossed straight to the writing desk on silent bare feet.

“Tch, a candle burning in front of his own face,” she muttered, “I almost admire the commitment.”

“Skip the decorating review and find the book, we have maybe four minutes left.”

“There’s a cushion embroidered with his initials… I’m just saying, it is very soft.”

She checked under the rug, behind the portrait, inside the clock, lifting each object with great surgical delicacy. Every hiding place held something silly, a portrait, a jar of cufflinks, a love letter addressed to himself.

“He wrote himself a love letter, Riven,” she whispered, scandalized, “with a wax seal.”

“What does it say?” he asked, despite himself, scanning the street below.

“That he will understand his own greatness someday, with a little patience and a better haircut.”

“Put it back, we only steal the evidence, not the hobbies.”

She slid a pick into the top drawer, found it locked, then let Every Door bloom open again. Inside lay a cheap leather notebook with a cracked spine, a pencil tied to it by a shoelace.

‘The ward and the gold are decoys. The real treasure is a notebook on a shoelace.’

Nix lifted it out with both hands, careful as if the cover might bite her hand. She read the title, lips moving silently, freckles standing out sharply against her suddenly bloodless cheeks.

“Route Plan: Gilded Line,” she read slowly, “Harem Completion.”

“What is it?” Riven asked sharply.

“I’m going to open it, I need you to stay on the line.”

“Is it trapped?” he asked, tightening his grip on the thread.

“Not with a ward… with a sentence,” she said, her voice cracking on the last word.

She turned to the first page and scanned it, her breath stopping for a full ten-second beat. The thread between their wrists went cold, then steadied, as though she gripped it with both fists.

“Riven,” she whispered, “come get me.”

He ran the two streets in under a minute, vaulting walls and cutting through a laundry yard. The ward pulsed once as he crossed the threshold, but his steps landed in the silent gap.

“Left foot now, then right,” Nix counted through the line, “I have you.”

“That was a shortcut I don’t recommend.”

Moonlight slid along the Laurel House walls as he vaulted the garden gate, the line of light burning brighter. Every window was dark, the servants fled or hiding, the whole house sleeping peacefully through a stolen secret tonight.

“Careful on the stairs,” came her murmur, “the third one squeaks, and so does the fifth.”

Nix stood at the desk clutching the notebook to her chest, her eyes enormous in the dark. When he reached her she was trembling, the cover pressed hard against her ribs like a shield.

“It says abandonment next to my name,” she said quietly, “like an ingredient in a recipe.”

“It’s wrong… you were never the recipe, you were the cook.”

She grabbed his collar, dragged his face level with hers, and kissed hard enough to bend his spine. The kiss lasted longer than any she ever stole from him, ending with her forehead on his chin.

“That’s the advance,” she said, breathing hard, “in full, with a little interest if you want it later tonight.”

Riven reached for her shoulder, “Nix, I—”

“Don’t talk… just read it.”

“I’m going to burn his name off every wall in this city,” he said, voice rough.

“Do that after you read the rest, I want every single name on that wall.”

She pushed the notebook into his hands without another word, her fingers cold, her eyes fixed on nothing. Riven opened it to the first page, where a neat, careful hand listed six names in a column.

[ Page one: Unlocks. Yukine (save at banquet). Mara (trauma, sold at nine). Nix (abandonment). Veska (sworn too young). Isolde (second choice). Ysabel (humble in duel). ]