Smoke clung to Valdareth like a second skin.
It wasn't the kind of smoke that vanished with a breeze—it was thick, oily, and bitter with the stench of scorched stone and charred dreams. Ash rained from the sky like snow, whispering of a rebellion that had refused to die. The city groaned with the weight of its own fear, and somewhere beneath the crumbling spires and shattered altars, the heart of the storm pulsed in darkness.
Riven stood among the wreckage.
His cloak was torn. Blood stained his hands—some of it his, most of it not. The Madness Echo had withdrawn for now, slumbering within him like a beast that had gorged too much, too fast. But he felt it stir with every breath, with every heartbeat. The fire inside was no longer just a weapon. It was part of him. And it demanded more.
Around him, the rebels regrouped.
They moved like ghosts—silent, bruised, hollow-eyed. Some had lost limbs. Others had lost family. All of them had lost something they could never name, but would never forget.
Thalia approached, her crystalline hair dulled with soot. She pressed a folded paper into his hand. "Intercepted message. The Sanctum is summoning the Flamebinders from the Ember Archives. They're preparing for a full cleansing."
Riven's eyes narrowed. "A purge."
She nodded, her voice low. "Every sector not under Sanctum control will be erased."
Jorren limped over, his right leg scorched, his armor barely holding together. "We don't have the numbers to hold off another assault. Not without a miracle."
Riven unfolded the message. His eyes scanned the script, every word striking like a blade.
Then he looked up.
"We don't need a miracle," he said. "We need to bleed them where they believe they're strongest."
That night, a plan was born in the silence between breaths.
The Ember Archives—one of the inner sanctuaries of the Flame God's order. A forbidden place, hidden deep beneath the city's first cathedral. The texts kept there weren't just sacred. They were dangerous. Ancient flame spells, divine oaths, blueprints of the very city, secrets meant never to see the light.
The Sanctum considered it untouchable.
Which made it perfect.
The descent was madness.
They infiltrated through forgotten tunnels beneath Valdareth's bones, guided by Zevran and his uncanny memory of the old sewer maps. Riven led the strike team—eight rebels hardened by war, their minds bound by vengeance.
They passed corpses still warm from execution. Children impaled on iron stakes. Walls smeared with bloodied sigils designed to break spirits.
But Riven didn't blink.
He couldn't.
Each horror carved another oath into his soul. Another reason to burn the gods that watched in silence.
They reached the Ember Archives at dawn.
The entrance was sealed by divine fire—blue, flickering, alive. Touching it meant instant incineration.
Thalia knelt before it, murmuring to her crystals. "This ward is alive. A sentient flame."
"Can it be unbound?" Riven asked.
Her eyes met his. "No. But it can be deceived."
Riven didn't ask how.
He simply nodded—and watched as she sliced her palm and painted her blood on the crystal fragments she carried. She began to chant in the ancient tongue, her voice trembling.
The flame flickered. Then dimmed. Then died.
They entered.
Inside, it was a cathedral of knowledge and suffering.
Scrolls bound in ash-leather. Tomes that screamed when touched. Chains that pulsed with warmth, as if once used on living flame. The sanctum of the gods' vanity. Every secret flame ever stolen, hoarded, or forbidden was kept here.
Riven didn't hesitate.
He moved to the central dais—where a single book floated, suspended in amber fire. The Codex of Binding.
The Madness Echo surged.
Not in rage. Not in pain.
In recognition.
It knew this place. It had bled here once.
Riven stepped forward, ignoring Thalia's cry of warning. He reached through the fire and seized the Codex.
Pain erupted through his spine, and something ancient screamed.
But he didn't let go.
He saw visions—cities burning, worlds swallowed in ash, gods kneeling before a throne of screaming embers. He saw himself among them. Or someone who wore his face.
Then the vision shattered.
And Riven stood, panting, holding the Codex in both hands.
But they weren't alone.
As they turned to flee, a voice thundered through the archive.
"You dare touch what was sealed in flame?"
A figure descended from the rafters—wreathed in divine fire, eyes molten gold.
A Flamebinder. A high priest of the Sanctum.
He raised a hand, and the fire around them howled into a storm.
The rebels scattered. Thalia screamed as flame caught her sleeve. Zevran drew both blades and charged, but the priest flicked a finger and turned him into ash mid-air.
Riven moved forward alone.
His bones burned. His blood boiled.
But he felt no fear.
The Codex pulsed in his grip.
"You are unworthy," the priest snarled.
"I was forged in unworthiness," Riven spat. "And I am still here."
He opened the Codex.
Words not meant for mortals leapt from the pages—black runes made of smoke and suffering. The Madness Echo laughed.
Riven spoke a single phrase.
The fire turned against its master.
The priest screamed as his own flames consumed him, devouring his skin, his soul, and finally his name.
Then silence.
They fled the archives with the Codex.
Losses heavy. Spirits frayed. But hope—real hope—had been stolen from the gods.
Later, as Riven sat alone by a dying hearth, Thalia approached.
"You spoke from the Codex. Do you know what you did?"
Riven shook his head. "No. But it answered."
She knelt beside him. "And now it watches."
He didn't reply.
He stared into the embers, his reflection fractured and flickering.
The rebellion had drawn blood from gods.
But in doing so, they had awakened something far older.
Something that no longer slept.