The city bled light and fire.Above, angels warred with rebellion.Below, Riven fell into darkness.
Not a fall of failure. A descent by will.
When the second angel had shattered the western ward, the blast flung Riven through the vault's broken altar. Beneath the shattered cathedral, beneath even the ancient stone of Valdareth, there was a place no man dared name. A chasm of memory and unmaking.
And now, he was there.
Falling.Burning.Becoming.
His body should have shattered. But the shard pulsed in his chest, and time twisted around him like silk in storm.
He landed in silence.
No echo. No dust. Just… stillness.
A chamber of obsidian, vast as sky, older than history. No torches, but the stone itself glowed—deep violet, like the shard he bore. Symbols circled the walls, unreadable, yet familiar. A language of gods who had forgotten how to speak.
And in the center—
A throne.
Cracked. Empty.
Waiting.
Riven stepped forward, and the silence spoke.
Not with voice.With memory.
He saw a city, once greater than Valdareth, swallowed in a single breath. He saw kings who crowned themselves with lies. He saw angels birthed from broken oaths. And he saw himself, walking backward through time, burning with violet flame.
"Why did you bring me here?" he asked the void.
The shard pulsed.
Not brought. Called.
He blinked.
"By who?"
The one you will become.
—
On the surface, Valdareth screamed.
Sol had risen again, wounds still glowing. She led the western defense now, shielding children and wounded alike as three angels descended, their song cracking the air.
Aria stood beside her, cloak torn, two blades soaked in divine ichor. The others had joined—Murn, blood engines howling; Xel, riding a wyvern made of bones and shadows.
And still, the angels pressed.
"Where the hell is Riven?" Sol shouted, as a beam of light scorched the towers.
"Fell through the altar," Aria gritted, slashing through a hymnwing. "Not dead. Not yet."
Sol's teeth bared. "Then he better come back as a god."
—
Riven stood before the throne.
Something inside him hurt. Not pain.Recognition.
He placed a hand on the obsidian seat.
The chamber lit up.
The walls spun with light—memories not his, voices from before the beginning.
One voice stood out.
A woman's. Gentle. Endless.
"You carry it," she whispered. "The Fragment of the Forgotten King."
He turned. No one.
"Who are you?"
"A promise. Unkept."
Then she stepped from the shadows. Pale robes. No face. Only eyes—violet stars.
"You are the last bearer. The last one foolish enough to try."
"To try what?"
"To end divinity."
Riven's breath caught.
"I didn't come to destroy gods."
"You came to survive them. It's the same thing."
He stepped back. "I'm not ready."
"You never will be. That is what makes you worthy."
Then she raised her hand.
And the throne crumbled.
From within it, a sword rose.
Not metal. Not flame.
Memory.
Forged from every pain he'd endured. Every lie he'd shattered. Every name he'd buried.
The sword floated before him.
Take it.
He hesitated.
Then—
He did.
And the world rewrote itself.
—
Above, in the dying city, the sky tore open.
A beam of violet broke through the clouds.Not flame.Not light.Truth.
And from it, Riven rose.
Floating. Cloak turned to shadow. Sword in hand.
The angels turned, sensing it.
Their hymn faltered.
Riven spoke a single word.
"Fall."
The sword moved.
And the sky screamed.
One angel shattered like glass. Another burned from the inside. The last fled—wings torn, song broken.
And Riven landed, before Sol, before Aria, before the rebellion.
Changed.
More than man.
Less than god.
But something else.
And he said, "We are not done."
—
The city roared.
Hope returned.
But Sol stepped close, eyes sharp.
"What did it cost?"
Riven smiled faintly. "More than I had. Less than I feared."
"And now?"
He turned to the horizon.
"Now we burn the empire."