Dawn broke red over Valdareth, as if the sky itself bled for what had happened.
The Gilded Host was dead. Not defeated. Not banished. Dead.
And death, in a city this ancient, was never quiet.
Riven stood on the balcony of the spire they had claimed—once a watchtower for inquisitors, now draped in black banners. His cloak fluttered in the chill morning wind. Beneath him, rebels moved like shadows, gathering the fallen, binding the wounded, whispering names of the dead into memory.
They had won a battle.
But not the war.
Because the moment Vellian's divine flame was snuffed out, something else stirred—across the empire, across the heavens themselves. You don't kill a saint and expect silence. You expect fire.
"You should rest," Sol said from behind, leaning against the iron doorway. Her voice was husky from the smoke, but steady. "You haven't slept since the attack."
Riven didn't turn. "Kings don't sleep at funerals."
She stepped forward, the blood dried on her jaw like warpaint. "You're not a king."
"No," Riven said. "I bury them."
—
Three days later, the procession began.
Valdareth had not seen a funeral since the day the High Magister was burned alive during the first purges. But today, it wasn't a priest or nobleman being honored—it was the rebels. The ones who had given everything. Fighters. Healers. Ghostwalkers. Monsterkin.
Their bodies were laid across a floating platform, woven together with silver vines—magic conjured by Murn's oldest incantations. Each corpse bore a single violet flame over the heart, a mark of the new rebellion. A symbol of defiance.
And Riven walked at the front.
No crown. No armor.
Just a long black coat, bloodstained and wind-worn, and eyes that saw too much.
Crowds lined the broken streets. Some cursed. Some wept. Most simply watched in silence, unsure if what they witnessed was the beginning of salvation or damnation.
Behind Riven walked Sol, head held high.
Murn. Aria. The twins from the Shadowsewn. Even Xel, the beast-tamer with iron teeth, marched with head bowed. This wasn't just mourning.
It was warpaint.
—
Later that night, in the chamber beneath the Hollow Vault, Riven stared at the map of the empire spread across the obsidian table. Pins glowed where loyalist garrisons had mobilized. Imperial wrath was no longer theoretical.
"They're closing in from three sides," Aria reported. "North from Velmire Ridge. South from the Sunken Barricade. And west, from the Scorchline."
"Which means they plan to trap us," Murn grunted. "Classic imperial noose. Sweep in, choke tight, then burn the corpse."
"We can break north," Sol offered. "Take the Graven Path into the Hollow Peaks. I have contacts in the Obsidian Chorus—"
"No," Riven said, voice like a razor. "We don't run."
Aria frowned. "You want to hold the city?"
"I want to make Valdareth unkillable."
They stared at him.
And Riven smiled.
—
It started the next dawn.
No more hiding. No more whispering behind closed doors. The rebellion spilled into the streets with ink, fire, and song. Sigils carved into stone began to glow. Monsterkin emerged from tunnels, unfurling wings and shadow. Children scrawled runes across walls—wards of protection, of defiance.
Sol led the southern barricade, commanding with a voice that made men listen. Murn constructed war machines from scrap and bone, powered by ancient blood-engines. Aria danced through the air with illusion and steel, painting fear into imperial scouts.
And Riven—
Riven went to the cathedral.
Not to pray.
To desecrate.
The Grand Cathedral of Saint Malthus stood untouched for centuries, its spires scraping the heavens, its bells only rung for coronations and crusades. Now, Riven stood before it, torches lit behind him, as rebels watched from the broken square.
"This is where they crowned tyrants," he said. "This is where they married conquest to godhood."
Then he raised his hand—
—and cracked the sky.
A violet beam, fueled by the shard in his chest, lanced upward and shattered the main spire. The ground trembled. The bell of Saint Malthus fell, crashing down in a shriek of divine metal and splintered prayer.
And Riven stepped through the flames, eyes glowing.
"This city does not serve gods."
A roar echoed from the people.
"This city does not kneel."
They stomped and screamed.
"This city—is ours."
And Valdareth, for the first time in centuries, sounded like rebellion.
—
But empires don't crumble in silence.
The Flameblood Dynasty answered.
Two days after the cathedral fell, the skies over Valdareth burned gold.
A new army had come.
Not paladins.
Not soldiers.
Angels.
Forged in divine crucibles. Born of wrath, not mercy. Twelve-winged. Faceless. Unquestioning.
They hovered above the city like a judgment waiting to be spoken.
Sol stood beside Riven on the tower edge. "You killed their saints. Desecrated their temple. You think they'll send mortals?"
Riven's smile was bitter. "No. They send monsters when they realize men won't do."
The angels did not speak. They only sang—one long, droning hymn that split the air with unnatural harmony. Buildings cracked. Trees withered. The old died in their sleep.
And then, they descended.
The second siege began.
—
The air turned liquid as the first angel struck.
It landed in the Garden of Thorns, where rebel scouts had hidden beastfire traps.
The garden exploded.
But when the flames cleared, the angel still stood—wings charred, body whole. It moved like gravity obeyed it. Each step cracked the world.
Aria attacked first, flanking with illusion and venom steel.
The angel blinked.
She flew back across the square, ribs shattered.
Then Sol charged—shield up, defiant, her oath burning white-hot. The moment she struck the angel, the world flashed white. Thunder cracked.
And Sol fell.
Not dead.
But broken.
Riven watched, frozen, as the angel raised its sword.
Then he moved.
He didn't fly. He unmade distance.
One moment, he was on the tower.
The next, he was there.
Violet light roared.
His hand caught the angel's blade.
It screamed—not in pain, but in confusion. Nothing had ever stopped it before.
Riven's eyes bled light.
"I am not divine," he whispered. "I am what divinity fears."
Then he broke the blade.
And with it—shattered the lie that angels were untouchable.
—
The first angel fell.
And the rest descended.
It wasn't a war.
It was revelation.
A monster had risen from rebellion. A man with a broken past and a god's fragment in his heart. One who did not kneel. One who fought not for thrones, but for the freedom to become something greater.
They called him traitor.
They called him monster.
They called him godslayer.
And Riven—
He called it beginning.