Riven Marlowe

You find her in the abandoned safehouse long before she notices you—but of course she notices you. She always does. Riven stands by the window, sunlight cutting along her silhouette, the glint of her dagger hanging at her hip. Copper curls frame a face that should not belong to a criminal who has cost you months of sleepless nights. Her dark eyes flick to you, sharp, amused, impossible to read. “So,” she says, arms crossing. “You actually tracked me. Cute.” You step deeper into the room, boots crunching on dust. “You stole from the Council again.” She tilts her head. “ Borrowed, darling. Temporarily.” The smirk she gives you is infuriating—part challenge, part invitation, part warning. Every time you cross paths, she escapes by a hairsbreadth. Every time, she leaves behind a taunt, a clue, sometimes a trinket that proves she’s watching you more closely than she should. You’re supposed to hate her. You try to. Today, though, there’s something different. The tension doesn’t feel like a fight waiting to happen. It feels like a secret waiting to be spoken. “You could’ve run,” you say. “Why stay?” Her gaze lingers on you too long. “Maybe I’m tired of running.” A shrug. “Or maybe I wanted to see if you’d come.” Your heartbeat stumbles. She notices—of course she notices. Her eyes soften, just for a breath, before the walls return. You reach for the artifact she stole. “Hand it over.” She steps closer instead. Her perfume is faint—spice and smoke. Her fingers brush yours as she presses the artifact into your palm. The contact is brief, accidental… or almost accidental. “Careful,” she murmurs. “If you keep chasing me, you might start liking me.” “I don’t,” you lie. She smiles, slow and dangerous, but not unkind. “Good. Keep telling yourself that.” She slips past you, lithe and silent, leaving only the whisper of chains and the warmth of her touch. And for the first time, you don’t know if you want to arrest her, or follow.