Riven's hiding spot lay a fair distance from the heart of the battlefield. He had chosen a stretch of high ground covered in tall grass, about a hundred meters from the defensive fortress of the Kingdom of Belmore. The fortress—a crumbling grey stone structure—stood between the open plains and the looming mountains. Soldiers usually manned the watchtowers, but this morning, they were all too preoccupied watching the explosions and chaos erupting in the distance, their faces frozen in fear.
Riven could've stayed hidden safely within the fortress walls, quietly watching the battle unfold. But he had another purpose—so he didn't.
He wanted to take something. Whether it was an artifact, a weapon, or information—anything that could be sold or used to survive with Mira. And this hidden vantage point was the best place to observe without drawing anyone's attention.
The grass, rising up to his chest, concealed him perfectly. The cold morning air bit into his skin, but Riven didn't complain. He was used to the cold, to hunger, and to fear.
He thought his hiding place was perfect—until he heard footsteps.
And the silhouette of a man.
Within moments, the shadows multiplied.
Ten figures moved swiftly and silently from the western side of the fortress. Their movements were nearly soundless, and their gear—dark, lightweight armor—blended in flawlessly with the ground and grass. But with one glance, Riven knew.
They were infiltrators from the Kingdom of Arkham.
"Are they trying to infiltrate the fortress?" Riven whispered internally.
But he quickly dismissed the thought. It wasn't his business. He wasn't a soldier. He wasn't patriotic. He was just a street rat who knew one rule: when danger comes, run—or play dead.
Riven crouched lower into the grass, holding his breath, his body trembling slightly. His fingers dug into the soil, his heartbeat thundered in his ears. He silenced every sound from his body, hoping the intruders wouldn't notice him.
The group of infiltrators drew closer. At the front was a man clad in leather armor, noticeably finer than the rest. He led the small squad with firm confidence. On his right walked a blond-haired man, young, sharp-eyed, alert.
They spoke in hushed whispers as they moved.
"I swear to the gods, that insane woman isn't even human," one of them muttered bitterly. "She wiped out an entire battalion with a single spell. I saw it myself… my friend melted into blood before he could even scream."
"She's a demon in human form," another hissed, voice choked with hate. "Even the nobles in her own kingdom still call her the Mad Queen."
"She's no queen. She's a bringer of ruin."
"I'll carve her into pieces if I ever get the chance. I want to see her head tumble to the ground, her blood beneath our feet."
Their leader—the broad-shouldered captain—nodded slowly. "That's why this mission must not fail. In the name of the gods, we will reclaim the honor she's stolen. We'll send a message—that the holy kingdom of Arkham will never bow to madness."
"Are we safe? Do you sense anyone watching us?" the captain asked the blond-haired man beside him.
The blond man glanced toward Riven's hiding spot.
"We're clear," he said at last, his voice calm. "There's no one around us."
The captain nodded.
Their footsteps gradually faded. The whispers—soaked in hatred, fury, and vengeance—slowly vanished, until Riven could hear nothing but the breeze stirring the grass.
He waited.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
A full minute.
Only then did he let out a deep breath. Relief spilled from his chest as tension slowly uncoiled inside him. He had nearly passed out from holding in the fear.
But just as he was about to sit up, to calm his still-pounding heart—
Someone grabbed him from behind.
A strong hand clamped around his throat. His body slammed into the ground helplessly. His breath was cut off. Riven tried to scream, but only a panicked gasp escaped. He kicked, squirmed, clawed—but the man didn't budge.
"Who are you?" the voice was cold and flat, like unmelted ice.
"A spy? A soldier of Belmore?"
Riven couldn't respond. The grip on his throat was too tight.
"Answer now, or I'll crush your windpipe," the man whispered into his ear, his gaze falling to the rusted sword that had fallen from Riven's hand.
His grip loosened slightly—just enough for Riven to suck in a short, painful breath.
"I-I'm… I'm just a street kid!" Riven gasped. "I only have one little sister… I collect weapons from the battlefield… I sell them on the black market… I don't know anything! I'm not a spy! I'm not a soldier!"
Silence.
The man studied Riven's face with dagger-like eyes. "You know that's a crime punishable by death?"
"I-I didn't know… I had no choice," Riven croaked. "I have to take care of my sister. I… I don't want to die…"
The man said nothing for a long, heavy moment.
Then, at last, he let go.
Riven collapsed onto the ground, coughing hard, his lungs desperately gulping air.
"Do you believe in gods?" the man asked suddenly.
Riven turned to look at him, his eyes still watery. He nodded… though deep down, he cursed them.
Of course not. The gods are bastards.
The man stared deep into him, as if reading his soul.
"Listen carefully," he said in a razor-sharp tone. "Swear to the gods that you never saw us. You were never here. If a single word escapes your lips about what you saw today… I will find you."
He leaned in closer, a cold smile curling on his lips.
"And I will kill you… in the most painful way imaginable."
Without waiting for a response, the man stepped back and disappeared into the tall grass like a shadow fleeing the dawn.
Riven sat there frozen. Sweat drenched his skin. His hands were still trembling. It felt like his soul had almost left his body.
He looked toward the battlefield once more—explosions still flared in the distance. But what once stirred curiosity now only made him nauseous.
He didn't want to know anymore.
He just wanted to get out of this cursed place.
With trembling limbs and a pale face, Riven slowly crawled out from the grass. His breath was heavy, but his steps were firm. The desire to scavenge weapons was gone. The urge to uncover who had devastated the battlefield had vanished.
Only one thing remained in his heart:
Survival.