He didn't move for a long time, just stood there, half-crouched, surrounded by windless trees. The wind was bristling in the distance, low but heavy.
The burn in his chest had faded, but the hollowness it left behind remained. He could still feel like the sword was still through his gut.
He died, and he was sure of it, yet here he stood. His heartbeat was sluggish, lungs tight, and his bones kept aching like they didn't belong to him anymore.
"Your eyes," Veyla said, "they seem different than before."
He turned his head toward her, "What do you mean by that?"
"They look dull, like they've dimmed out. The ember-like glow from before looks almost faded."
He looked at her in confusion, then walked toward a puddle that was near the shrine. He stared at his reflection and she was right. The faint, ember-orange light that had clung to his pupils when he first awakened... it was a bit dull now. Like someone had turned down the fire in them.
"What do you mean?" he asked, even though he wasn't sure he wanted to know.
Veyla sheathed her blade, her expression now unreadable. "It means you gave something for life."
She stepped closer, her voice lower. "Some things the world forgets, some things it takes away."
His fingers twitched slightly. "I still don't understand how I'm alive."
She didn't answer his question. Instead, she sat against the broken shrine, watching him like one staring at a wounded beast—not with pity, but with caution.
He didn't join her to sit down, just continued standing. The site behind him, still glowing faintly, its warmth no longer welcomed him. It just lingered, cold and indifferent.
He looked down at his palm again. The mark was there, but it felt dead.
"Who was that knight, Veyla?" he finally asked, looking at her with an unreadable expression.
Veyla clenched her jaw, then answered, "A Hand of Grace, and from the looks of it, he's an executioner."
"So Grace sends knights to kill people like me? People who don't belong?" he asked intently.
She didn't respond, just stared away.
"That's what you used to serve, right?" he asked, his voice colder and harsher than he meant.
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't rise to the bait and start an argument. "Not all grace is pure, hex. Not all its servants are just. That's why I left."
His expression saddened. "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that."
The silence became thick and dry.
"What did you lose in exchange for life?" she asked quietly.
He turned to her, but didn't say anything.
"When you came back, you said you don't know—but something definitely left you, didn't it?"
He tried remembering, but he couldn't get his hands on whatever it was.
Only the feeling of something missing inside him, something warm and soft. A memory? A sound or laugh, perhaps? He couldn't quite grasp it, but he knew it was gone.
"I don't know," he whispered. "But it hurts... a lot."
She nodded as if she understood what he meant, and maybe she actually did.
The two of them stayed there for a while, the firelight from the site casting long shadows behind them.
The forest was silent, and the wind didn't blow much, either.
Finally, he broke the silence.
"I don't think this world wants me to stay alive, Veyla," his voice low.
Veyla tilted her head, then asked, "Then why do you keep trying to stay alive?"
He didn't answer because he didn't know, either. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was something buried deep, older than memory, louder than fear.
Or probably because dying once had shown him how fragile everything was and how easy it was to be forgotten.
He wouldn't allow himself to die again. Not without fighting for it.
He pushed himself up, steadier this time. The ache in his body was still there, but it didn't make him falter.
Veyla watched him stand up quietly, then slowly she stood up to her feet as well.
"So, what are you going to do now that you don't remember anything? Even your own name?" she said.
He looked at his hand, then up at the sky. "I've always liked the name Riven. He was my favorite artist," he muttered. "Riven Ashur."
"The world knows you died, but it doesn't know what came back. Now you can either let it define you, or choose your own path."
He looked toward the ruined statue, at the way the Site still glowed faintly.
"A broken flame, a broken name."
He turned back to her. "I choose Riven," he said slowly. "Riven Ashur."
She stared at him for a while, then nodded slowly. "I like it."
He felt different now, like a soldier molded from fire. He might have lost his past, but now he had something else to look forward to.
A reason to stay alive.
He now had a name—one that would burn its way into history with his actions. No matter how many times the world tried, he wouldn't forget it.
This time around, he was determined to fight his way to the top and take the crown.