They came with banners of flame and armor that shimmered like molten gold. The Gilded Host—champions of the Flameblood Dynasty, paladins born of holy fire and fed on divine scripture. In Valdareth, mothers once told bedtime tales of them to frighten children into obedience.
Now, those same children huddled behind collapsed walls and wept as golden death marched through the streets.
The purge had begun.
Grand Inquisitor Vellian led them—a mountain of a man clad in rune-etched plate, bearing a sword that had severed heads of kings and heretics alike. His eyes were not his own anymore. Two radiant flames flickered in his sockets, the price paid to see the sins of men as divine law dictated.
"Burn the gutters. Cleanse the womb of rebellion," he commanded.
And the city screamed.
—
From beneath the Hollow Vault, Riven watched the flames spread like a sickness.
The rebellion was only weeks old, but the empire responded with the fury of a beast stung in its heart. Whole districts were locked down. Names whispered in prayer circles turned into targets. Butchers were dragged from their shops, accused of harboring unregistered talents. Mages were nailed to iron poles, their blood used to inscribe divine runes over sewer entrances.
Riven knew it wasn't a purge.
It was fear.
He liked fear.
"What's the plan?" Sol asked, tightening her blood-forged gauntlets. "If we don't strike now, they'll find the Vault."
Riven turned, the divine shard within his chest flickering like a slumbering sun.
"We don't hide. We escalate."
Murn grunted. "Against the Gilded Host? You want to make an enemy of gods?"
"No," Riven said, walking into the light, violet flames licking his fingertips. "I want to become the reason they fear blasphemy."
—
They struck at dawn.
The Gilded Host had set up a sanctified camp atop the ruins of the old Weaver's Market—a once-bustling hub now reduced to rubble and relics. Riven's rebels, clad in patchwork armor and wielding cursed blades, waited in silence among the ghosted stalls.
Riven stood atop a broken fountain, cloak snapping behind him, and raised his voice.
"I am Riven Thorne. The one who defied death. The one who drank from the altar the gods abandoned. You came for blood. So drink."
Then he raised his hand—and the streets exploded.
Murn had lined the ground with volatile cursefire and blood-ink sigils. The moment Riven's signal came, the entire market turned into a warzone of fire and collapsing magic.
Flame met flame as paladins drew their swords, rallying beneath the divine banners, but they were disoriented, scattered.
And then Sol struck.
Wielding her vow-bound shield, she tore through the line like a comet of wrath. With each unjust death she had once witnessed, her strength grew. She slammed into Vellian's flank, blade ringing off his divine shield.
"You," the Grand Inquisitor hissed. "The Oathbreaker."
"No," Sol whispered, parrying his strike. "The Reckoner."
Steel clanged against holy steel. Sparks sprayed the air as divine and heretic collided.
The battle at Weaver's Market wasn't war—it was apocalypse reborn. Every inch of stone cracked beneath the pressure of ancient sigils awakened. The rebels fought with desperation, but Riven fought with purpose.
He was no longer hiding.
He strode through the chaos, carving through golden armor with violet fire that hissed like a whisper in the dark. His eyes burned with something older than rage—something the gods had buried long ago.
One paladin lunged at him, invoking a prayer of absolution. Riven caught the blade in his bare hand, blood sizzling against the rune-steel.
"No absolution left for the divine," he said, and turned the paladin into ash.
Murn, meanwhile, fought like a beast unchained. His skin had hardened into obsidian scales, his axe dripping with molten ether. At his back, a banner of teeth and broken chains waved—the sigil of the new rebellion.
Sol was holding her own, but Vellian was a titan. The Grand Inquisitor moved with terrifying grace for a man his size, each blow of his flaming sword carrying enough divine judgment to shatter stone.
"You fight in vain," he roared. "The Flamebloods are chosen! You are a stain!"
Sol grinned, blood on her teeth. "Then call me plague."
She headbutted him, cracked his helmet, and with a scream, plunged her blade into his gut. Holy ichor sprayed.
But he didn't fall.
He grabbed her by the throat. Lifted her.
And began to chant.
"By flame, by law, by judgment—"
Then a scream of a different kind echoed through the ruins.
Vellian turned.
Riven stood over the corpses of three paladins, drenched in violet light. The divine shard in his chest was pulsing—no longer faint, no longer slumbering.
It was alive.
"You think law is power," Riven said, voice echoing like a bell in a tomb. "But monsters don't kneel to law."
The light burst.
Wings of fractured crystal and fire erupted from his back. His feet lifted from the ground. The air shimmered with wrongness.
And then he moved.
In a blink, he was before Vellian. In another, he was behind him.
The Grand Inquisitor staggered.
His sword fell.
His hand followed.
And Riven's voice followed last.
"Tell your gods—monsters don't make peace. We end it."
—
After the battle, silence ruled.
No victory cheers. No chants.
Just fire.
Riven stood over the fallen. His chest rose and fell, calm amidst the chaos. The divine shard's glow dimmed, but its heat remained.
Murn limped to his side. "We just killed a saint."
"No," Riven said, eyes on the horizon. "We just declared war on heaven."
Sol approached, her armor cracked, but her spirit unbroken. "And what now?"
Riven turned, cloak fluttering.
"Now we teach the gods what fear feels like."