Chapter 309 Riverpoint Arrival 

Quinn and Harlan stepped off the regional jet into Riverpoint, the second–largest city in Doria. Because Riverpoint bustled with a sizable Clusian diaspora, both Clusian and Uprian drifted through the air like twin currents. Ordering food, hailing cabs, even small talk at the curb came effortlessly, the comfort of familiar words softening the strangeness of a foreign skyline. 

“Have you booked a place to stay yet?” Quinn asked, tightening the strap on her shoulder bag as they waited beside the taxi queue. 

“I have–same hotel as you,” Harlan replied, casual yet decisive. 

Quinn’s brow arched, curiosity mingling with suspicion. “And how exactly did you know which hotel I chose?” 

“Laura reached out before we flew,” Harlan explained. “She wanted me to run a quiet security check on your hotel. Once it cleared, I figured booking a room there made sense.” 

Warmth unfurled inside Quinn like dawn light spilling through sheer curtains. She had not expected Laura’s discreet vigilance, and the discovery made the world feel a shade safer. 

“Then let’s get moving,” she said, flagging down the next cab. 

The hotel rose in polished glass and pale stone a few blocks from the riverfront. Check–in proved swift, passports stamped, keycards handed over with rehearsed smiles. Their rooms faced one another across a narrow corridor–doors close enough that a knock or a hurried call would carry easily. 

“So, Quinnie, what do you plan to do first?” Harlan asked once their luggage was stowed. 

“First the police station,” she said, voice steady. “After that, I need to visit the place where my brother was last seen. Maybe the ground still remembers something we don’t.” 

“I’m coming with you,” Harlan answered, the promise offered without flourish. 

Quinn did not argue. She simply nodded, acceptance shining behind her 

eyes. 

They rented a compact sedan, city map glowing on the dashboard screen, and headed toward the police station, the tires whispering over sun–baked asphalt. 

Thanks to strings quietly pulled by the Azanian Embassy in Doria, the local detectives produced the five- year–old case file within minutes. Time, however, had eaten holes through the record. What remained was little more than a single stark line “Vagrant obstructed vehicle, removed from scene.” 

“Was the vagrant’s name never documented?” Quinn asked, leaning closer to the yellowed page. 

“If he’d given one, we would have written it down,” the officer said, weary yet patient. “No name usually means he didn’t have one, or couldn’t remember. Many on the streets struggle with their minds.” 

Could Rowan have taken a head injury so severe he forgot even himself? Is that why he vanished into Doria, silent to the army, silent to us? 

Leaving the station, they drove to the address Marley had once pinpointed in a grainy video. Five years had altered little–the same cracked pavement, the same leaning streetlamp, the same hush of disinterest 

III 

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Chapter 309 Riverpoint Arrival 

from passing traffic. At the intersection’s shadowed corner, Quinn stopped, gaze fixed on an empty patch of curb as though it were an open wound. 

Her mind replayed the footage. Rowan being dragged, limp and unresisting, then discarded like refuse The brother who had once seemed unbreakable had looked fragile, a felled oak stripped of branches. 

“Quinnic?” Harlan murmured, stepping beside her. “You’ve been staring for a while. 

“My brother was thrown here,” she whispered, the words landing heavier than stones. 

“Rowan?” Harlan’s disbelief cracked through his composure. “How could that possibly be?” 

Quinn’s eyes clouded, a shimmering film threatening to spill. “Back then, he waved down a passing car for help,” she said, her voice frayed at the edges. “Instead of pulling him in, the people inside told their bodyguards to haul him to the shoulder and dump him there like trash. 

Simply speaking those words felt like reopening a wound–cach syllable rasped across raw nerves, leaving a dull throb hanging in the air. 

Harlan leaned in, brows knitting. “Who was in that car? Did you manage to find out?” 

Quinn lowered her lashes, bitterness tugging at her mouth. “Julius Whitethorn.” 

The name struck Harlan like a slap. Recognition flickered across his face, and in that instant he understood why Quinn had walked away from Julius without warning. 

“Rowan is going to be all right,” Harlan said, steady as a promise. 

“Let’s start by asking around,” Quinn replied. “Maybe someone still remembers what happened five years ago.” 

At this point, luck was the only compass they had left. 

To her surprise, a gray–haired shopkeeper squinted when she posed the question. “Oh, you’re digging into that too? Must’ve been some big shot, that homeless fellow from five years back. People keep coming, always sniffing after his trail.” 

Quinn’s pulse jumped. “Who else has been asking?” 

“Strangers,” the shopkeeper said, eyes gleaming with greed. “A whole crew of them. They flashed a thick roll of bills for answers.” 

Harlan offered a relaxed smile, produced a handful of crisp notes, and laid them on the counter. “Share whatever you know, and these are yours.” 

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