The ashes had barely cooled.
The valley, once teeming with flame and thunder, now whispered in smoke and silence. Broken weapons lay like the teeth of fallen beasts, and blood—divine and mortal—still steamed in the early morning mist.
And yet, amid the ruin, something stirred.
Not a sound.
Not a shape.
A truth.
A presence.
And Riven felt it before he opened his eyes.
He had dreamed again—this time of a forest, quiet and filled with laughter. No war. No angels. Just a girl, barefoot and singing, her voice carrying through trees that remembered no pain.
He had tried to follow her.
But the moment he touched her hand—
He woke up.
Sol was already dressed, armor strapped to her frame, hair tied in a high knot, fresh scars forming across her shoulder. She glanced at him from the edge of the tent.
"You scream in your sleep now," she said without looking at him.
Riven sat up, rubbing his face. "I always did. You're just close enough to hear it now."
"Romantic."
"No," he said, with a tired half-smile. "That's you."
She threw him a fresh shirt. "Get up. There's something you need to see."
He followed her out of the tent, limping slightly. His ribs had cracked—again—and no healer dared approach him after what happened with the cardinal.
Because now, they whispered his name.
Not in awe.
But in fear.
They had seen what he could do with memory.
They had seen him break an angel's will with nothing but a forgotten name.
And for the first time since he had bled for them—
Some wondered if they had followed a man, or birthed a god.
They walked through the camp.
Some bowed.
Others avoided eye contact.
Children stared.
Riven said nothing.
Until they reached the cliff's edge.
Below, where the valley once sprawled into open terrain, now stood a throne.
It had grown overnight.
Not built.
Grown.
Vines wrapped in golden veins. Bones of angels. Shards of forgotten swords. It pulsed faintly, like a living heart.
A crown of stars hovered above it, spinning slowly.
A throne the gods had not placed.
But one the world had formed.
Sol crossed her arms. "It sings at night."
Riven stepped closer.
And he heard it.
Not a song.
A scream.
A scream that mirrored his own.
"They say it's calling for a king," Sol whispered.
"I'm no king."
"No," she said, turning to look at him. "But the world thinks you are. And when the world screams, you can't pretend to be deaf."
He didn't answer.
Because deep inside, part of him wanted to sit on it.
Just once.
To feel what it meant to be more than a weapon.
That night, he didn't sleep.
Instead, he walked the camp in silence, watching soldiers play dice, watching rebels bandage wounds, watching boys learn how to hold blades too heavy for their arms.
He stopped by the graves.
Hundreds of them.
Some marked with names.
Others only marked with stones.
He knelt beside one.
"Arien," the stone read.
He remembered her laugh.
He remembered how she died protecting children with nothing but a shovel.
He lit a candle.
And when he stood, Aria was beside him.
"You blame yourself again," she said.
"I always do."
She held out a flask. He took it.
"Maybe blame is a form of love," she said softly.
He drank in silence.
In the morning, the world changed again.
A messenger arrived from the east.
Not on a horse.
On wings.
Feathered black.
Wings of a fallen one.
He landed before Riven, bowing without touching the ground.
"You are summoned."
Riven frowned. "By who?"
The winged man did not answer. He held out a scroll.
Riven took it.
He read it.
Once.
Twice.
Then closed his eyes.
"What does it say?" Sol asked behind him.
He opened his mouth.
But the words didn't come.
So he handed her the scroll.
She read it. Her expression hardened.
"The King of Silence is dying," she said aloud. "And his heir…"
"Is me."
No one spoke.
Because everyone knew what that meant.
The King of Silence ruled the eastern dominions, the lands untouched by war because of one pact: they would not interfere. As long as no heir emerged from the old bloodline.
But now, the old king was dying.
And Riven's name was on the scroll.
Blood of the Lost Crown.
"I thought you were born from fire and ruin," Aria said that night.
"I was."
"And yet your blood traces back to the first sovereign of the east."
"I guess pain runs deep."
"What are you going to do?"
Riven looked at the throne that still screamed.
Then at the scroll in his hand.
Then at the sword by his side.
He didn't answer.
Because he already knew.
The next morning, the camp was silent as he walked to the edge of the valley.
Sol, Aria, Murn, Xel—his core stood by.
"You're leaving?" Sol asked.
"Yes."
"To take a crown?"
"No."
He turned.
"To end a bloodline."
They watched him walk.
Into the fog.
Toward the throne that screamed.
Toward a kingdom that waited.
Toward a fate no longer borrowed—but made.