The warehouse looks like nothing.
That's the first problem.
It's the kind of building your eyes decide isn't worth keeping track of after the first pass. Corrugated metal dulled by years of sun and grit. A roll-up door layered in old tags and newer ones that never quite manage to erase what came before. Just another industrial square wedged between a machine shop and a loading yard that smells faintly of oil and rain.
Nothing here asks to be remembered.
Which, given my recent track record, feels intentional.
Monica slows as we approach, her attention sharpening without tipping into alarm. I recognize the shift instantly. It's the same one I use in airports and unfamiliar neighborhoods. Alert, not afraid. Looking for pattern, not threat. The posture of someone who knows how to be cautious without being reactive.
"This feels deserted," she says.
"I think that's the point," I reply, though I'm not entirely sure why I think that.
She parks anyway.
The air outside is cool and stale, layered with echoes that don't belong to any single sound. Somewhere nearby, metal strikes metal. Somewhere farther off, an engine idles too long before cutting out. The space feels underused rather than abandoned. Like it's been set aside. Paused. Waiting for the right reason to matter again.
There's a pedestrian door cut into the larger bay, exactly where Riven said it would be.
I reach for the handle.
The door explodes open.
Something massive barrels past me, all momentum and speed, and I hear Monica scream behind me. I try to turn, to find her, to make sense of any of it, but a huge hand clamps over my mouth and the world lurches sideways. I'm dragged backward into the building as the door slams shut, loud and final.
I stumble free and spin around.
Riven is already moving, running up a set of stairs at the back of the space like he's late for something important.
I stare, trying to orient myself.
What was this place? A warehouse? A house?
Along one wall sits a kitchen, open to a dining area and a living space. A hallway stretches farther back, swallowed by shadow. But the room's gravity belongs to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. I hadn't realized how much elevation we'd gained on the drive. The skyline stretches farther than it should, the city laid out bare and exposed beneath us.
Overhead lights glow steadily, but candles burn anyway. They mark shelves and tables and corners where plants spill from crates and stands, softening the industrial bones of the place.
I run back to the door.
It doesn't move.
I pound on it with my fist. Nothing. No sound escapes. No echo answers back. I'm about to shout Monica's name, or for help, or for anything at all, when something grabs my shoulder and spins me around.
Riven stands in front of me, eyes wide, face stripped of every careful layer I've seen him wear so far. He looks scared. He presses a finger to his lips, shaking his head when I open my mouth to demand answers.
He steps aside and peels open a small cutout in the door I hadn't noticed before. He looks through it for half a second, then yanks the door open.
The giant from outside lumbers in.
The door slams shut behind him, and suddenly I'm airborne.
I don't scream. I don't have time. I'm lifted clean off my feet and crushed into a broad, solid chest.
A hug.
"What. Is. Happening," I manage.
"Hearth, put her down, buddy," Riven says, with nowhere near the level of urgency I think this situation deserves.
"Sorry," the creature rumbles, his whole body vibrating with the sound. I'm set gently back on my feet.
He's enormous. At least seven feet tall and built like he was carved out of a single block. And he's naked. Completely. Except that he's also made of clay.
Clay.
I stare.
Riven takes my arm and steers me toward the seating area facing the windows before my brain can fully reboot.
"Is he…" I start, then trail off, because I don't know how to finish that sentence.
"He's a golem," Riven says calmly. "A protector. You're safe."
His fingers slide to my wrist. Somewhere distant and irrelevant, I realize he's checking my pulse.
"Hearth protect. Hearth not do job. Hearth sorry."
The golem leans toward me again, arms opening, but Riven steps between us and rests his hands on the giant's shoulders.
"You did your best," Riven says gently. "You protected Evie. You did good."
Hearth deflates.
It's unsettling how expressive he is with a face made entirely of the same sepia-colored clay. Even his eyes lack whites, all warm brown and depth. He looks hand-shaped. Crafted.
The expression on his face is pure sorrow. Then, slowly, it shifts. Relief settles in. His posture straightens. If he had a tail, it would be wagging.
A boy and his dog.
"Where's Monica," I ask.
Riven turns back to me, and the concern in his expression sharpens.
"I'm going to bring her back," he says.
"What do you mean, bring her back."
"I was worried something like this might happen. I thought we had more time."
"Don't," I snap. "Don't do that thing where you think you're answering me and forget that I don't understand a word you're saying."
My voice is louder now. The space where Monica should be is suddenly too big, too empty. My mind fills it with worst-case scenarios.
"Monica is being taken to the fae realm," Riven says.
The words knock the air out of me.
"Monica is being taken to the fae realm," I repeat. "There's a fae realm."
"Yes."
"And you're bringing her back."
"Yes."
"Great. Let's go."
I stand and turn for the door.
Riven steps in front of me.
"You need to stay here."
I already know where this is going. Keep you safe. Liability. Would only slow me down.
Something in me snaps. Loudly. Cleanly.
I step closer and jab a finger into his chest.
"Listen to me." I slow my voice on purpose, keep it low, keep it steady. Not calm. Careful. "I listened to you when you said you couldn't talk back at my office. I listened when you dragged me to a meeting place that doesn't exist on any map. I listened when I carried a box of museum artifacts to that meeting and brought the exact person you suggested."
I stop. Breathe. The words start stacking wrong.
"So either we go get Monica, or I…"
Nothing comes.
There's no threat there. No leverage. No clever angle waiting in my pocket. I don't have authority or power or some hidden ace I can slam down. I'm nobody. I can barely keep my own life upright on a good day.
And Monica. Monica just tried to help me. She trusted me. She followed me into this because I asked.
My hands curl uselessly at my sides. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do," I admit, quieter now. "But I'm not leaving her."
Tears burn at the edges of my vision. Anger. Helplessness. Frustration.
Warm hands settle on my shoulders.
I look up.
Riven's expression is steady now. Resolved.
"Okay," he exhales. "We will go get Monica."
"Evie sad," Hearth rumbles behind me.
The sound punches a surprised laugh out of my chest. Relief cracks through the tension, thin but genuine.
I look up at the big guy and see him looking back with so much care and emotion that I can't help but smile at him.
I'm rewarded with a goofy smile back.
Riven steps away, already talking to Hearth in a language I don't recognize.
I take the time to check my phone.
Partly out of habit. Partly because my hands need something to do that isn't shaking or clawing at Riven's throat. The screen feels small and stupid and familiar in my palm. An anchor to a version of reality where golems don't exist and friends don't get taken right in front of you.
I scroll past a cluster of unread messages from Evander.
I don't remember deciding not to answer him. I just didn't. Somewhere between my office and this place-that-isn't-on-any-map, he slipped into the category of later. Which feels like a mistake now, in hindsight, the way all ignored instincts eventually do.
Then a new notification slides into view.
My breath stops.
"Oh," I say. Then again, louder, "oh my god."
Riven is beside me instantly. Close enough that I can feel his attention lock fully into place.
"It's Monica," I say. My voice sounds wrong, like it's coming from a step behind me. "She made me download a location-sharing app after that documentary. The one about people who went missing and were technically still alive the whole time."
I angle the phone toward him.
The map loads.
A single dot pulses steadily against the city grid.
Alive.
Moving.
Not away, like I was expecting.
Deeper in, toward the business and financial districts.
Relief hits first. Sharp and bright and almost painful. Then the second realization lands right on top of it, heavier.
Where the hell are they going?
"That gives us a margin," Riven says. "A narrow one."
He takes the phone from my hand and turns, speaking quickly to Hearth. I don't recognize the language, but the tone is unmistakable. Urgent. Directive. No room for misunderstanding.
"Hearth will prep the car," Riven says, already moving. "We leave now."
He pulls my backpack off my shoulders before I remember it's there. The box of artifacts comes out next. I open my mouth on instinct.
Then I close it again.
Professional responsibility feels very small right now. Monica's life does not.
Riven redistributes the artifacts into his coat with practiced ease. The way he does it tells me this isn't improvisation. This is a plan he hoped he wouldn't have to use yet.
He repacks my bag with items that only make sense once they're there. Water. A flashlight. Coins that feel heavy, even from across the room. Not physically. Intentionally.
Hearth returns and hands me my phone carefully, like it's fragile in a way he can feel but doesn't have words for. The dot is still moving. Slow. Purposeful.
Riven guides me through a door I don't remember being there before.
The garage smells like oil and cold stone. Three cars sit in a neat row. We don't hesitate.
The Land Cruiser hums to life. Hearth drives. Riven slides into the seat beside me instead of the front.
That feels deliberate.
It's only once we're moving that my thoughts finally organize themselves into a question.
"Who took her?"
Riven doesn't answer.
Instead, he reaches into his coat and presses something into my palm.
A button.
Silver. Old. Warm in a way metal shouldn't be.
My body reacts before my mind can catch up. The air leaves my lungs in a sharp, involuntary rush.
"Fuck," Riven says quietly.
The world doesn't break.
It folds inward, then back out.
Light opens like a tunnel I don't remember stepping into.
I'm standing somewhere that doesn't obey symmetry.
Stone rises where it's needed and thins where it's allowed. Walls fold inward like they're listening. Roots break through the floor, thick and dark and alive, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of passing feet. Moss grows where light touches stone and is left alone. Not ornamental. Not controlled.
The air smells like rain held in soil too long. Sharp. Clean. Heavy.
The ceiling is high enough to breathe but low enough to press on you. Branches knit together overhead, living wood grown into arches that never quite repeat. Light filters through leaves that don't belong to any season I could name. Some are green. Some are copper. Some look like they burned once and never finished turning to ash.
There's a throne.
Carved directly from the same stone as the floor. Not a chair so much as a convergence point. A place where decisions have accumulated. Where the stone remembers. The back rises unevenly, rough in places, polished smooth in others by hands that rested there too often and too heavily.
No guards line the walls.
The room watches instead.
I feel it like a living thing around me, breathing and listening. The space responds to who enters it. It tightens around fear. It softens for grief carried honestly. It doesn't care about bravery. It cares about motive, and it knows how to recognize when someone is pretending not to have one.
Standing here feels like being measured without being judged.
Which somehow makes it worse.
The king does not loom.
He sits.
Still. Patient. As if the throne is not a symbol of authority but a burden he keeps having to pick back up.
I know, without being told, that this is not a place where bargains are struck loudly.
This is where they are remembered.
The king has long silver hair and white eyes.
Blind.
The knowledge arrives whole, without explanation.
He can't see me, but it feels like he can sense me.
"It's been so long," he says, his voice thin as paper, his head turning in my direction. "Since I felt the presence of a Witness."
Pressure blooms behind my eyes. Not pain. Alignment. Like something checking whether I'm where I'm supposed to be.
I don't get the chance to respond.
Something yanks me backward, hard and visceral, and the world snaps shut like a trapdoor.
I'm back in the car.
My stomach revolts immediately.
I barely manage to open the door before I'm retching onto concrete, my body emptying itself like it's trying to undo a mistake it never agreed to make. Hands steady me. Someone holds my hair, rubbing my back.
When the ringing in my ears dulls enough for the world to reassemble, I straighten slowly.
I expect Riven.
Or Hearth.
Evander is crouched in front of me instead, concern already in place, eyes cataloging my reaction with unsettling precision.