The world was not ready for him.
Riven stood at the edge of the ruined square, violet flame flickering in his eyes, the memory-forged sword humming in his grasp. The wind whispered old names, names that had not been spoken since the First Collapse. Names that clung to his skin like ash.
The rebels around him stood in stunned silence. The angels had fled. The city still burned—but in that moment, hope returned. Tangible. Solid. A presence they could feel in their marrow.
And it terrified them.
Because Riven was no longer what he was.
Sol approached first, her armor scorched and cracked, yet her eyes unflinching.
"What happened down there?" she asked.
Riven turned his gaze toward her, slow and measured.
"I found the throne beneath the world," he said, voice like velvet stretched over steel. "I saw what came before. What will come again."
Aria stepped forward, one blade sheathed, the other still dripping with celestial ichor. "And this sword? What is it?"
"Memory," Riven replied. "Not mine. Not yours. The world's. All the pain we buried. All the truths we forgot. It remembers."
He lifted it slightly.
The air cracked.
Sol flinched. Aria tensed.
Riven lowered the blade, letting it rest at his side. "I don't want to be a god," he whispered.
"But you are one now," Aria said, eyes sharp. "Or something close."
Riven didn't reply.
Because she was right.
That night, the stars hid behind black clouds.
A war council gathered in the ruins of the southern library. Candles flickered over maps bloodied with time. The rebel leaders—Sol, Aria, General Murn, Xel the Bonebinder, and three others who had fought in the shadows—sat around a shattered table.
Riven stood at the head.
He did not sit.
"We can't win this war with men alone," he began. "The gods are moving. Their angels are only the first. The Seraph Host marches from the Silver Bastion as we speak."
"How many?" asked Sol.
"Thirteen legions," Riven said. "And behind them, the Pale Cardinal."
The room fell cold.
Aria slammed her fist on the table. "We need allies. The Deep Forest tribes. The southern blood covens. Even the Necromarchs. Anyone who still breathes and hates the throne."
"They won't fight for us," said Murn. "They'll only fight for blood."
"Then give them blood," said Riven.
All eyes turned to him.
"We let this world rot too long under divine chains. We prayed to gods who demanded silence. We obeyed rulers who forgot their people. That ends tonight."
He raised the sword.
The room darkened.
Violet flames danced over stone and soul.
"This isn't rebellion anymore," he said. "This is extinction. Either we erase the gods—or we vanish with the last light of memory."
Later that night, he stood alone on the cathedral's broken tower, watching the sky breathe fire over distant hills.
Footsteps behind him.
It was Sol.
She approached quietly, her usual armor gone, replaced by a dark robe wrapped tight against the wind.
"You scare them," she said.
"I scare myself," he replied.
She stood beside him. For a moment, neither spoke.
"I watched you rise from the sky," she whispered. "I saw the fear in the angels' eyes. And still, part of me wonders… are you still Riven?"
He turned to her. "Are you still Sol, after all you've done?"
She hesitated. Then nodded slowly.
"Then yes," he said. "I'm still me. Just… more."
She looked into his eyes. "What did you give up down there?"
He didn't answer for a long time.
Then, softly: "My past. My future. Myself."
A pause.
"And it wasn't enough."
The next morning, they marched.
South.
Toward the River of White Ash. Toward the Valley of Forgotten Thrones.
Every rebel who could still walk followed him.
Not because he was their leader.
Because he was their last chance.
And behind them, in the ashes of Valdareth, the sword carved a trail of memory that would never fade.
Two days into the march, they were ambushed.
Not by soldiers.Not by angels.By dreams.
It began with silence. Birds stopped flying. The wind stilled. The sun turned red.
Then screams. From within.
Soldiers dropped to their knees, clutching their heads. Visions overwhelmed them—memories not their own, futures never lived. Some laughed. Some wept. Some died.
Aria and Sol tried to organize retreat.
But Riven stood still.
He closed his eyes.
And he remembered.
Every soul here. Every wound. Every child lost. Every parent buried. Every oath broken.
He held it all.
And then, he released it.
A single pulse of violet swept the plain.
The screaming stopped.
And the dreams shattered.
They rose, confused but alive.
Riven bled from his eyes.
But he smiled.
"You won't break them that easily," he whispered to the wind. "You'll have to try harder."
That night, Sol sat beside him as healers bandaged his hands.
"You shouldn't carry all of it," she said gently.
"I don't have a choice."
"You always have a choice."
He looked at her.
"I chose you."
She froze.
"I chose Aria. Murn. All of them. This isn't about destiny anymore. It's about people."
Her voice was soft. "And what about you?"
He didn't reply.
Because he knew the truth.
There would be no future for him.
Not if the world was to have one.
As they reached the edge of the valley, scouts returned in panic.
"The Seraph Host," they gasped. "They're here. Two days early. They've summoned the White Flame."
Murn growled. "Then we fight."
Aria grinned. "Let them come."
Sol turned to Riven.
And Riven… simply stepped forward.
Toward the fire. Toward fate.
Toward the gods who had ruled too long.
And as his sword lit with the first light of war—
The world began to change.
Forever.