The sky over Valdareth was restless — streaks of crimson clouds slithered across the horizon like bleeding wounds. Word had spread of the massacre in the eastern quarter, and though the city still breathed, fear coiled in every alley.
Riven stood before the Sanctum's great hall, his expression carved from stone. Before him stood the new recruits — forty faces, some hardened by street wars, others barely more than children with trembling hands.
They were all he had.
And they would have to be enough.
Kaela leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, watching with disinterest.
"They'll break," she muttered. "Half of them won't survive the next week."
Riven didn't glance at her. "Then we'll train them until they do."
Kaela arched an eyebrow. "You still think hope is enough to win a war?"
He turned to her, eyes glowing faintly with the residual heat of his Soulbrand.
"No," he said. "But faith—and fire—will be."
The next days were a crucible.
Murn drove the recruits past the brink, forcing them through obstacle gauntlets lined with illusory demons.
Sol taught swordwork without mercy — every mistake marked with bruises and blood.
Aria crafted personalized soul wards for each, burning their fears into glyphs they were forced to wear against their skin.
And Riven — he didn't train them.
He trained with them.
Every cut he took, every blow he blocked — it made him human to them.
And in their eyes, slowly, he stopped being a myth.
He became a leader.
On the fifth night, under moonless skies, Aria's wards flickered.
She bolted upright in her chamber, her senses screaming.
A memory surge. Not hers.
Someone has breached the outer glyphline.
"RIVEN!" she screamed, already sprinting.
The Sanctum shook as a blast of raw soul magic shattered its southern wall. Screams erupted from the inner courtyard. Smoke curled upward as shadows poured into the city like spilled ink.
The Whispering Veil had come again — not with assassins this time, but with wraithforged.
Creatures of soul and shadow, born from pain and bound by sacrifice.
Riven was the first to strike back.
His Soulbrand lit up like wildfire, and his sword met the first shadowbeast in a blaze of white fire. Madness Echo howled through the enemy ranks, distorting their forms.
Behind him, Kaela's mercenaries rallied.
Sol spun through the night like a flame made flesh, cutting down foes with her twin sabers.
Aria levitated above the battlefield, eyes glowing indigo as she rained arcane lightning.
And the recruits — gods help them — stood their ground.
One boy, barely fifteen, threw himself between a wraith and his friend. The blow should have killed him. It didn't.
Riven caught the creature's blade with his bare hand, blood dripping down his arm as he crushed its essence.
He whispered to the boy, "You live now. You fight later."
And the boy — tear-streaked, trembling — nodded.
That was the moment the tide turned.
By dawn, the courtyard was drenched in blood, but still held.
Kaela approached Riven, grime on her face, her sword chipped and bloody.
"You were right," she admitted. "Fire and faith. Maybe that's what wins wars."
He gave her a tired smile.
"Maybe. Or maybe we just got lucky."
She snorted. "You don't strike me as someone who counts on luck."
"I don't," he said. "But sometimes… I count on people."
Later that morning, Aria entered the war room, pale and wide-eyed.
"I found something," she said.
She placed an old scroll on the table. It was etched with forbidden glyphs — soulbindings used by the Whispering Veil. A map bled through the parchment, only visible to those who had touched the veil of death.
It showed Eldermoor.
An abandoned city, lost decades ago to plague and madness.
But now, it pulsed on the map.
Alive.
"That's their sanctuary," she said. "Their origin point. If we strike there, we cut out the heart."
The table fell silent.
Kaela broke it first.
"That's suicide."
"No," Riven said, slowly. "That's strategy."
Sol stepped beside him. "We can do it. But we need time. And we need… more than blades."
He looked at her. "What do you mean?"
She hesitated, then opened a palm.
A shard of obsidian floated above it — humming, vibrating.
"It's time," she said, "to awaken the ancient pacts."
Riven froze. "You mean—?"
"Yes," she whispered. "The old gods. The fallen guardians. The ones the Sanctum betrayed."
They were forbidden by creed.
But Riven was done with creeds.
"We wake them," he said, voice steady.
Kaela frowned. "And if they destroy us instead?"
"Then we fall as monsters fighting monsters," Riven replied, "not men begging for mercy."
That night, Riven sat alone on the highest tower, overlooking the battle-scarred city.
The moon had returned.
Its light fell softly on his scarred hands.
He touched the Soulbrand.
"Until we say forever," he whispered.
The words weren't a promise.
They were a vow.