There was a storm inside Riven.
Not the kind that screamed with thunder or lashed with wind—this one was quiet. A stillness too loud. A silence that devoured sound. The kind of storm born when a soul had been flayed, bargained, and reborn under the eye of a godless thing.
And now, that storm walked toward the gates of the Bramhall Estate.
They called themselves nobles.
Riven called them the first debt to be collected.
The estate stood atop the hill like a crown of bone—white walls, gilded spires, and enchanted statues of the Bramhall ancestors watching from every corner. Beneath them, generations of cruelty slumbered behind rose-stained glass.
Guards patrolled in formation. Magic-laced spears. Arcane wards. A golden dome hummed above the estate, powered by a bloodline sigil: protection forged through centuries of incestuous hoarding of divine blood.
Riven didn't blink.
He walked straight into the barrier.
It should've flung him back. Shattered his soul. Burned him to ash.
Instead, the dome turned black where he touched it. Like rot on glass. It wept.
The mark on his chest—the Voidbrand—shone faintly beneath his tunic.
The gate guards raised their spears.
Too late.
The first man didn't even scream. Just vanished—consumed by a shadow that erupted from Riven's palm. Not fire, not darkness. Absence. Where the guard had stood was now only a smear of memory.
The second was quicker. He fell back, screaming a spell—but his mouth closed around his own tongue. Folded inside-out. Magic didn't respond. Riven's mere presence bent the air.
The third tried to run.
He made it five steps before a ripple passed through the ground and his bones sang. The wrong song. His body convulsed, then turned to salt.
Riven stepped over the pile.
Inside the Bramhall estate, chaos bloomed like poisoned lilies.
Servants screamed.
The head steward—a mage named Vallis—attempted to activate the emergency recall circle, designed to transport the Bramhall bloodline to the Sanctum in times of crisis.
He carved the sigil into the air.
Riven caught the glyph mid-stroke.
"Your blood's not pure enough," Riven whispered behind him.
Vallis turned. Eyes wide. "You—how did you breach—"
Riven reached out. Touched his forehead.
And pulled.
The man's ego unraveled. Thoughts bled from his ears. His knees gave way, and he died without a wound.
The grand atrium doors burst open.
Lady Seraphine Bramhall stood in velvet and emerald, four soul-bound knights behind her. Her hands dripped with radiant flame. Her crown bore the sigil of house Bramhall: a lion devouring the sun.
"You dare?" she snarled. "You, a gutterborn? A branded mongrel? You defile my gates?"
"No," Riven said. "I purify them."
She laughed. "We are chosen. Protected by the Blood Pact of Divinity. The gods marked us as stewards of civilization. What do you have, boy?"
Riven's eyes gleamed.
"Something older than gods."
He raised his palm.
The four knights moved—flashing steel, spellshields, auras of divine sanction.
Riven didn't retreat.
The Void pulsed.
A howl tore through the air. Not of a beast—but of every thing those knights had ever feared. Mothers weeping. Lovers begging. The child they abandoned.
Their swords shattered.
Their minds followed.
They crumpled to the floor, twitching, eyes wide open and hollow.
Lady Seraphine stared. "What… are you?"
Riven walked forward.
"For every child you burned in the name of 'blood purity'," he said, voice low.
"For every servant you branded with their family's debt."
"For my sister."
He raised his hand.
Seraphine screamed and cast a burning sigil—divine authority surged.
Riven didn't flinch.
He used Transcend Pain.
The moment froze. Power surged. Silver thorns spread from his chest, wrapping his limbs, his spine, his will. The memory he offered in sacrifice this time: the sound of his father's voice.
Strength flooded him. The divine flame bent away.
He struck once.
Her crown shattered.
Her soul bled from her eyes.
Hours later, the city awoke to screams.
The Bramhall estate was ablaze.
The house guards had vanished. Every magical ward lay broken. In the center of the charred atrium sat a single throne, crafted entirely from the gnawed bones of the noble family.
Upon it, Riven's cloak.
No corpse. No blood. Just a message etched into the floor:
"The Divine are False. The Debt is Real."
Back in the slums, Whisper waited.
Riven emerged from the alley shadows like smoke.
She didn't ask what he'd done. She saw it in his eyes—darker now, less human.
"You used the mark again."
He nodded.
"What did you lose this time?"
Riven closed his eyes.
"I don't remember."
She sighed. "The gods will take notice."
"Let them."
"They won't be the only ones. The Inquisition is already moving."
Riven cracked his neck. "Good. Then I won't have to hunt them. They'll come to me."
Meanwhile, In the Sanctum of High Flames
Archmage Elion strode across the skybridge of the Sanctum, robes aflame with golden runes. His eyes burned with divinity, and yet he trembled.
A missive floated beside him—inked in blood, sealed with broken light.
Heretic Ascendant confirmed.Voidbrand present.Bramhall line extinguished.
He reached the High Circle.
The eight Archlords waited, seated upon floating glyph-thrones.
"What do we do?" one whispered.
Elion did not speak. He simply turned to the north-facing window.
Far off, above the Wyrmhollow Chasm, a second sun had appeared.
Black and pulsing.