The smell hit him first—blood and dust and something burning. Riven tried to lift his head, but the world spun sideways. Shouts rolled across the battlefield, distant and muffled, as though he were hearing them through water.
His fingers tightened around his sword. Or tried to. The blade slipped in the mud.
A boot crashed down just beside his hand.
He looked up.
The commander didn't even look winded. His armor was cracked, and a streak of dried blood ran down his cheek, but his eyes were as cold as ever.
"Riven." He said the name the way someone says problem. "You're done. Fall back."
"I can still—" Riven swallowed, tasting iron. "I just… I need a second."
"You've had plenty." The man turned his back, already walking. "We're not dragging you again."
The squad rushed after him, boots pounding, blades out. Not one of them looked at Riven lying in the dirt.
His chest tightened—anger, embarrassment, something else he couldn't name. He forced himself upright, but pain tore through his ribs. Again he fell.
The sky above him was grey, swirling with ash.
Then the world blurred—his vision stuttering, darkening.
Someone screamed in the distance.
A beast roared.
And Riven's body finally gave up.
Everything went black.
⸻
He wasn't sure how much time passed. Minutes, hours—maybe longer. The only thing he remembered was cold stone under his back and a scent he didn't recognize: herbs, smoke, and something faintly metallic.
When he opened his eyes, the ceiling above him wasn't sky. It was rock. A cave, dimly lit by blue crystal veins running along the walls.
Riven blinked until things came into focus.
"You're awake."
The voice echoed gently.
A man knelt beside him, wringing out a cloth over a small bowl. His features were sharp but not harsh, marked with lines that came from exhaustion rather than age. Dark hair fell around his shoulders, streaked with silver as if frost had touched it.
Riven tried to sit up. The man pressed a hand against his shoulder—not forcefully, just enough to stop him.
"Easy," he said. "You tore yourself apart out there."
Riven stared at the shimmering bandages wrapped around his ribs. They pulsed faintly, like something alive.
That wasn't possible.
He swallowed. "You used… magic."
There. He'd said it.
He half-expected the cave to collapse just for speaking the word.
The man didn't deny it. "You'd be dead without it."
"But the kingdom—"
"Doesn't matter right now." He squeezed water from the cloth, wiped the dirt from Riven's cheek with surprising gentleness. "You breathe first. We argue about laws later."
Riven wasn't sure why, but the tone made his throat tight.
"Why help me?" he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
The man hesitated. Not long—just long enough for the air between them to shift.
"Because I couldn't watch you die," he said quietly. "Not again."
Riven frowned. "Again? I… I don't even know you."
"You will," the man murmured, but he didn't explain. Instead, he reached for something else—herbs, a strip of cloth. His hands moved with the familiarity of someone who had done this a hundred times.
Before Riven could say more, the cave trembled. Dust rained down from above.
The man's expression changed in an instant—softness gone, replaced by grim readiness. He stood, positioning himself between Riven and the cave entrance.
"They followed your trail." His voice lowered. Tightened. "Stay behind me. No matter what."
Riven's pulse spiked. "Wait—who followed—?"
Footsteps. Steel scraping stone.
Shadows shifted at the entrance.
Then they stepped inside—enemy soldiers, blades reflecting the cave's eerie glow.
Riven's breath froze.
The man—his rescuer—moved faster than Riven could track. Magic flared from his hands, lighting the cave in brilliant flashes. Steel met spell. Sparks burst. Bodies fell.
But he was outnumbered.
And magic, for all its wonder, took a toll.
A spear found its way past his guard. Then another.
Riven shouted, voice cracking.
His father—though Riven didn't know that yet—looked back only once. And that single look held a thousand unsaid things: fear, regret, love, frustration, pride.
And then he collapsed.
Riven didn't remember crawling.
Didn't remember screaming.
He only remembered the feeling—like something inside him cracked open and light poured out of the wound.
A heat rose in his chest, then a coldness, then something ancient and enormous. Words he had never learned forced their way up his throat.
His mouth opened.
The command didn't sound like his voice.
It sounded older.
Heavier.
A language made for mountains and storms.
The cave shook.
The sky above tore open.
And a roar answered—so loud it made the earth tremble.
A blue dragon crashed down outside the cave, wings folding like thunderclouds. Ice burst from its mouth, freezing soldiers where they stood.
Riven could only stare.
The dragon lowered its massive head… toward him.
As if it knew him.
As if it recognized his blood.
Something inside Riven whispered the truth he had never been told, the truth his mother's stories had hidden:
He was not an ordinary boy.
He was the son of a Dragon Lord.
And the kingdom that killed his father—
would one day answer for it.