Page 6 of The Scars of War (Of Ruin and Fire #1)

Fire and Glass

The darkness surrounds me, the weight of it curling over my shoulders until my skin prickles. My boots sink slightly into the thick black runner laid across polished stone, and the faint scent of aged wood, dust, and something colder, something metallic, threads through the air.

Light blooms slowly overhead, chasing itself through crystal strands that drip from the black chandelier like falling stars. The glow is faint, almost silver, yet enough to draw the space out of the dark.

The foyer unfolds like a cathedral built to intimidate.

Glass and stone rise together in sharp, deliberate lines.

High above, the ceiling vanishes into shadow, the architecture so vast it feels less like a room and more like a space carved from the inside of a mountain.

My gaze catches on the walls lined with massive gilt frames.

No portraits. No faces. Just moments trapped in oil and brushstroke.

Fire bleeding across an open field. A city crumbling in on itself.

A figure, back turned, standing in the center of ruin with their fists clenched.

Rage rendered in colors that feel alive.

The sound comes before I see him.

Soft, deliberate steps against the stone, each one measured like the space belongs to him — like it always has. My eyes rise to the staircase, and there he is.

He stands at the top, framed by the darkness beyond, his presence bending the air around him.

My chest tightens as he descends, every movement controlled, precise.

The black suit and shirt are immaculate, cut to his frame like they were made for him, not a single wrinkle breaking the lines.

There’s an elegance to him, but it’s the kind of elegance that hides something sharper — the stillness of a predator that doesn’t need to chase what it can draw in.

I force my breathing even, refuse to look away.

“Nice place,” I say, voice steady even as my pulse pounds. “Overcompensating much?”

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 the mansion, 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 following orders,” he murmurs.

“You’re not used to being told to fuck off,” I snap. His smile sharpens in a way that says good . 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.

“You think I’m flattered that some rich psychopath’s been watching me like I’m a fucking exhibit?”

He rises from his chair, and takes a walk around his desk before stopping only a foot away from me. “You don’t belong behind a bar, Lux.” I don’t move, stunned by his remark as if he knows me. “You don’t know anything about me. ”

“I know you haven’t picked up a brush in months.

” Something cold scrapes down my spine as he continues.

“I know you don’t sleep unless you drink.

I know your hands shake before the first customer walks in.

I know you keep the sketchbook under your pillow like it can protect you.

” My mouth tightens into a thin line as he continues.

“I know you wake up some nights convinced something’s in the room with you,” he says, his voice still low.

“And I know the part that terrifies you most—it feels like a homecoming.” The air between us is now pulsing, “I know what you are,” he finishes.

My voice cuts like ice. “Don’t.”

He tilts his head. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t pretend you know me just because you’ve been watching from the shadows like a coward.”

“You think I’m hiding?” he says, stepping closer. “I brought you here.”

“For what? To posture? To make yourself look like a Bond villain with a library fetish?”

He’s close now. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. Close enough that I should step back, but I don’t. “You think knowing my secrets gives you power over me?” I hiss.

“No,” he says quietly. “It gives me clarity.”

“Fuck your clarity.” I push past him, or try to. His hand catches my arm firmly.

“I don’t want to fix you, Lux,” he says, making me freeze. His eyes find mine, and something in them flickers with a hint of darkness. “I want you as you are,” he says. “Sharp. Defiant. Dangerous.”

“You want control,” I spit.

“I want ownership.” Those words crack through me like lightning.

“You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

He smiles. Just barely. “Finally. Something we agree on.”

I rip my arm free and take a step back, heart pounding. “I don’t care how many cameras you’ve tapped or dreams you’ve hijacked. You don’t get to play puppet master with me.”

“I didn’t pull your strings, Lux,” he says calmly. “I opened a door and you stepped through it.”

“You think that makes you safe? ”

“I think it makes you curious.”

“You think this is just curiosity?” I ask, voice rising. “This is me deciding whether I should burn this whole fucking place down before I walk away.

He nods slowly. “Good,” he says. “Then you’re exactly where you need to be.

” He turns without another word and moves to the far wall.

Another glass case waits there. Smaller than the others.

Spotlit like a relic in a church. Inside it is a blade.

The dagger is slender and elegant in a way that feels cruel.

Its blade curves like a fang, narrow and gleaming with a dark, tempered sheen that isn't quite silver, isn't quite black. The metal hums faintly under the glass, like it remembers being touched. Forged for blood, not ceremony. Etched into the steel are symbols that I don’t recognize, made of spined curves and branching lines, like veins, or roots, or something older. Something meant to mark more than names. The hilt is wrapped in weathered black leather, worn smooth along one edge like it's been gripped too tightly, too often. There’s a small tear right where the leather ends. At the pommel sits a single shard of obsidian, sharp as grief, set into a twisted iron crown. It looks ancient. Purposeful. And not just dangerous, hungry . Like it’s waiting.

It hums with violence, even behind the glass.

That’s not why my breath stops. I know that blade…

because I drew it in my sketchbook months ago.

The lines, the curve of the hilt, the split down the center of the steel…

it’s exact. It was as if the weapon was copied from my mind and forged in secret.

“What the hell is this?” I ask, voice sharp.

He doesn’t look at me. Just stares at the blade.

“You tell me.”

I take a step forward; eyes locked on the weapon. My throat tightens. “I don’t…”

“You’ve never seen it before?” he asks, calmly. “Never touched it? Never dreamed of it?” I want to lie. But the truth is already unraveling in my stomach. He finally turns, and for once, there’s no smugness in his voice. No threat. Just certainty. “They weren’t just dreams, Lux.”