The world was on fire again.
Or maybe it only felt that way.
The cultists lay scattered across the ruined courtyard, their robes burning, their bodies groaning. The white-hot ring of flame that had burst from Riven's pendant was already fading, but its heat still sizzled in the air.
Riven stood at the center of it all, chest heaving, sword lowered.
He didn't know what had just happened.
One second, he'd been surrounded. The next, something inside him had snapped loose — like a lock undone, like breath after drowning. He hadn't cast a spell. There had been no chant, no control.
Just instinct.
And fire.
The pendant at his neck was now cold again. Lifeless.
> "Now that's what I call dramatic," Veyron drawled inside his head. "Are you done trying to die yet?"
"I didn't… mean to do that," Riven muttered.
> "Of course you didn't. You never mean to survive. You just do. Lucky you."
Riven ignored him and looked down at his hands. They were trembling slightly — not from fear, but something else. The burn inside his veins hadn't stopped. Mana. Raw, unfiltered. Like a current trying to escape.
He'd felt it before. Briefly. In dreams. Moments of panic. Buried under instinct.
But this was the first time it had erupted fully.
He turned his gaze to the cultists. Two were unconscious. One was crawling toward a blade, trying to push himself up.
The leader — the one with the twisted sun mask — was still standing. His robes were scorched at the edges, and a long cut bled across his shoulder, but his eyes burned with something far more dangerous than pain.
Hatred.
"You don't even know what you are," the cultist hissed. "You shouldn't exist."
Riven raised his sword again. "Then stop talking and fight."
The man charged.
No hesitation. No spell. Just speed and a downward strike meant to kill.
Riven met him steel to steel, and the clash rang through the empty city like thunder. Sparks flew. Riven shifted his stance, blade sliding to the side, but the man was stronger than he looked. Every strike came harder, faster.
> "He's using bloodcraft," Veyron warned. "Don't let his blade touch yours for too long — it'll leech your mana."
"How do you know that?"
> "I know a lot of things you don't, princeling."
Riven adjusted. Instead of meeting the strikes directly, he ducked low, then twisted to the side, letting the enemy's blade crash against stone. He used the opening to slash upward — a clean cut across the man's side.
The cultist stumbled.
But he was smiling.
"You think you're strong?" he snarled. "You're an echo. A child cursed by a forgotten bloodline. Do you even know why they sealed this city?"
Riven didn't answer.
> "Don't listen," Veyron said quickly. "He knows some truth. Not all. Not yet."
Riven moved.
One final strike — swift and clean — cut the man's arm before he could react. His weapon fell with a clang. Riven slammed the pommel of his sword into the mask, and the man collapsed.
Silence returned to the ruins.
Only the wind remained.
Riven stood over the unconscious body for a moment, then slowly sheathed his blade. His heart still raced, but the fire inside him was beginning to settle — not gone, but smoldering.
Waiting.
> "You didn't kill him," Veyron noted. "Mercy, or fear?"
"He has answers."
> "Hmm. Smart boy."
Riven turned to the others. Two cultists were too injured to move. One was muttering something under his breath — a chant, maybe a curse. Riven kicked the dagger out of his hand.
Then he looked at the pendant again.
It didn't glow.
But something else did.
A faint shimmer in the air — behind the cracked stones at the edge of the courtyard. Like heat rising off a forge, but cooler, bluer.
A memory stirred.
He moved toward it slowly, boots crunching over broken masonry. As he got closer, the shimmer sharpened — forming a perfect circle of symbols etched into the ground. Ancient script. Forgotten by most.
But not by him.
Or rather — not by Veyron.
> "Well," the spirit whispered. "You found it."
"What is it?"
> "A vault. A seal. A grave. Depends who you ask."
"Will it help me remember?"
> "No."
Riven frowned.
> "But it will help you survive."
Before Riven could speak again, the ground inside the circle cracked.
Blue light surged from the stone, shooting up in a column around him. He didn't move. Couldn't. The air felt like it was pressing down from all sides, and the light pulsed against his skin like rain.
Then — silence.
A soft click.
And the stone opened.
Inside the hidden chamber was a pedestal — and upon it, a book.
Old. Bound in black leather. Sealed by a broken chain.
Riven stepped forward.
> "It's yours," Veyron said. "Or at least, it was."
Riven reached out — and touched the cover.
In that moment, the world vanished.
---
FLASHBACK
He was a child.
The skies were burning.
Screams in the distance. A castle crumbling. A voice — a woman's — calling his name.
"Riven! Riven, come here—!"
A man stood at a door. Tall. Cloaked in armor of flame and gold. Eyes like fire.
He knelt and pressed something into Riven's hands.
A pendant.
"This will protect you," the man whispered. "You must run. No matter what happens. Promise me."
"But—"
"RUN!"
Then darkness.
---
BACK TO PRESENT
Riven fell to his knees, gasping. His hands trembled again — not from pain, but from something more than fear.
He had seen his father's face.
Only for a second.
But it was enough.
> "It's starting," Veyron said softly. "Piece by piece."
Riven stood slowly, the book clutched to his chest.
He turned back toward the cultists. Most were unconscious. The leader, bound in arcane rope he'd conjured from the last of his mana, would be dragged for answers.
The ruins of Velmora had spoken.
And they were not done.
---