The wind howled with the voice of gods.
On the edge of the Valley of Forgotten Thrones, two forces stared each other down. On one side, rebels who had once been mere survivors, led now by a man who walked with memory and flame. On the other, the Seraph Host—angels whose wings bled fire and whose eyes bore the cold silence of judgment.
They arrived in silence.
They never needed to speak.
And yet, their presence screamed louder than any war horn.
The White Flame—a divine conflagration summoned from the First Sky—burned behind them, stretching toward the heavens like a second sun. It did not flicker. It did not move. It simply existed, eternal and consuming, a symbol of what could never be undone.
Riven stood at the front, violet sword humming with ancient resonance.
Sol stepped beside him, lips pressed tight. Aria stood at his other side, blades crossed over her back, eyes burning with anticipation. Murn, Xel, the rest—they formed a line behind him.
A line not of soldiers.
But of believers.
Believers in the impossible.
In him.
"Do not cross this valley," came the voice.
It did not come from mouths.
It came from the sky.
From a golden-winged figure descending like a falling comet.
He did not land—he hovered, halo aglow, seven swords rotating around him.
The Pale Cardinal.
"I offer you one last act of mercy," he intoned. "Lay down your arms. Kneel. And the gods may yet permit your rebirth."
Riven did not flinch.
"You burned cities," he said. "You sanctified massacre."
"We purified rot."
"You caged the world."
"We preserved it."
Riven raised the sword of memory, pointing it toward the cardinal's heart.
"You forgot one thing," he said. "We remember."
The wind stopped.
The valley waited.
The cardinal's expression did not change.
"Then die."
The heavens broke.
With a single gesture, the Seraph Host moved. Wings unfolded like galaxies unraveling. Light speared down in columns of divine wrath. Blades fell like meteor showers.
And the rebels charged.
There was no command.
No trumpet.
Only faith.
Faith in the one who had bled for them.
And that was enough.
Riven moved first.
He vanished from sight.
Then reappeared midair, above the cardinal, sword already swinging.
The cardinal blocked with a snap of his finger—seven blades meeting one.
The clash shattered the sky.
The explosion cracked mountains.
And still, Riven pushed forward.
Not as a man.
Not as a god.
As something between.
Below, Sol led the infantry, her shield burning with the mark of the phoenix. Each strike of her hammer sent celestial warriors flying. Aria vanished between angels, reappearing only to slit throats and whisper names of the fallen.
Murn broke the line with brute force, his enchanted bones glowing like molten steel. Xel summoned forgotten ghosts, binding them to flesh and bone, forcing divine beings to face the memories they erased.
And everywhere, violet light marked Riven's presence.
Each flash, a divine died.
Each step, the rebellion advanced.
He and the cardinal fought above it all, dancing among clouds lit by wrath.
"You are nothing," the cardinal hissed. "A child playing with tools you cannot comprehend."
"I don't need to comprehend," Riven growled. "I only need to end."
And he did.
With a cry, he split the sky open.
Memory burst forth—millions of lives, screams, prayers, betrayals, losses.
He forced them all upon the cardinal.
The angel screamed.
His halo cracked.
His swords dulled.
And then, Riven pierced his chest.
Not with the blade.
With a name.
"Liora."
The cardinal froze.
A single tear fell from his eye.
"You… remember…"
And then, he vanished.
Not dead.
Just… forgotten.
The Host broke.
Without the cardinal, chaos spread.
The White Flame flickered.
Riven fell to his knees.
The sword burned in his hand, demanding more.
Sol ran to him, catching him before he collapsed.
"Breathe," she whispered. "You did it."
He looked up, eyes dimming.
"We didn't do anything yet."
The rebels pushed forward.
The angels—leaderless—retreated.
The White Flame exploded, but Aria managed to channel its force into the sky using forgotten glyphs drawn with her blood.
The valley held.
But at a cost.
Over a third of the rebellion lay broken in the dust.
And Riven… could barely move.
He sat beside a ruined statue that once depicted a god of justice.
It now bore his face.
Someone had carved it during the night, quietly, reverently.
He stared at it in silence.
Sol approached and knelt beside him.
"You're becoming more symbol than man," she said.
"I never wanted to be either."
"You keep saving us anyway."
"Because no one ever saved me."
That night, as stars returned to the sky for the first time in a decade, Riven dreamed.
Not of gods.
Not of war.
But of a field of white flowers, and a girl whose name he could no longer recall.
She smiled.
And he wept.
Because some things were too precious even for memory to hold.