The wind cut across the valley like a blade.
Dry, bitter, and full of ash. It whispered through hollow towers and scorched trees, brushing against ancient stone that still bore the black marks of fire. Not ordinary fire. Not the kind made by human hands. This was something deeper. Something older.
What remained of the once-great kingdom of Velmora stood broken and buried beneath the dust.
And in the heart of its ruins stood a lone figure.
He wore a gray cloak, weather-worn and stained from travel. The hood was down, revealing unkempt black hair and eyes that shimmered like dark glass. His boots crunched softly on the cracked flagstones as he walked forward — slowly, almost reverently.
Riven Caelthorn Valenhart.
Seventeen years old.
Last of the bloodline that once ruled this kingdom.
He didn't remember it, not truly. Only fragments. A voice. A scream. Warm arms wrapped around him. Fire in the sky. Then… silence.
Now, all he had was a name, a sword, and the broken pendant around his neck.
The pendant pulsed.
Riven stopped walking and looked down at it. The silver was cracked down the middle, like something had tried to split it in two. A faint white glow still flickered inside — dim, but alive.
Just like him.
"This is where it ended," he whispered, though there was no one to hear. "Isn't it?"
> "It ended for them," came a voice — smooth, teasing, and far too familiar. "Not for you."
Riven didn't flinch.
The voice had been with him since the night his world burned. Sometimes quiet, sometimes maddening. Always present. At first, he'd thought he was cursed. Then insane.
Now, he simply accepted it.
"You're awake again," he muttered.
> "You say that like I sleep. I don't. I wait."
Riven exhaled slowly. His fingers brushed the pendant again, and the glow grew slightly warmer.
> "Why are we here, Riven?" the voice asked. "Are we here to remember? To bury something?"
"I don't know," he replied.
> "Liar."
He didn't argue. The voice — Veyron, it called itself — had always been able to poke holes in his silence.
The ruins around him were cold, but his blood ran colder. Somewhere beneath this city lay the truth. He didn't know what form it would take, only that it was buried in stone and shadow.
And for the first time in years… he was ready to dig.
Riven walked deeper into the ruins, passing toppled statues and half-melted steel gates. His boots brushed bones long forgotten. Some were human. Some weren't. The fires of war hadn't discriminated.
He reached what remained of the royal courtyard — a place once lined with marble trees and golden banners. Now only a ring of black stone remained, scorched in perfect symmetry.
He stepped into it.
The pendant flared.
A low hum echoed beneath the stones — not a sound, but a vibration in the air. It thrummed through his chest.
> "This place remembers you," Veyron whispered. "Even if you don't remember it."
"I know."
He knelt, placing his hand on the center of the circle. The stones were warm, impossibly so.
And then — a tremor.
It was small at first. A shiver in the ground.
Then the stone cracked.
A jagged fissure split across the courtyard, and black mist began to rise from the earth like smoke from a dying fire. It twisted in the air, thick and unnatural.
Riven stepped back, eyes narrowing. His hand went to the hilt of the sword strapped to his back.
Figures emerged from the mist.
Four. Maybe five. Dressed in robes of deep gray, marked with crescent moons painted in blood. Their faces were hidden behind carved bone masks.
Cultists.
> "Shadowbound," Veyron said calmly. "How nostalgic. Looks like they never stopped hunting you."
"Why now?"
> "Because you came too close. This place was sealed for a reason."
One of the cultists stepped forward. Taller than the rest. His mask was different — a twisted sun with a single slit for the eyes.
"Valenhart," the figure said, voice low and sharp. "You shouldn't be alive."
Riven didn't answer.
"You should have burned with the rest of them," the man continued. "But it doesn't matter. You're here now. And the pendant… it belongs to us."
"Come take it," Riven said.
The man tilted his head. "You've forgotten who you are. Forgotten what you carry. That makes this easier."
The other cultists drew weapons — curved blades, etched with runes that pulsed with sickly red light. The mist thickened. Magic shimmered on their skin like oil.
Riven slowly drew his sword.
It wasn't polished. It wasn't beautiful. But the runes along its edge glowed with quiet purpose — fire, wind, and something deeper.
> "Let me help you," Veyron whispered. "You've held me back long enough."
"No," Riven muttered. "Not yet."
The cultists moved forward.
> "You're going to die if you fight like a human."
"Then I'll die standing."
The first cultist lunged — blade flashing toward his throat. Riven sidestepped, sparks flying as his sword clashed with metal. Another followed — a sweeping strike aimed at his side.
He blocked, twisted, and slammed his foot into the attacker's chest.
They were fast. Coordinated.
But so was he.
Years of wandering, training, and surviving had taught him one thing — never stop moving.
He deflected another strike, then spun low, knocking a blade from the cultist's hand. The pendant around his neck flared again — brighter this time. He could feel it now. Heat rising through his arm. Mana awakening.
His veins burned.
> "Let it out, Riven."
"No—"
> "Stop pretending. You were never meant to be normal."
Another cultist came from behind. Riven turned too late.
The blade came down.
And then—
Flames erupted.
The pendant exploded in light, and a ring of white-hot fire burst from Riven's chest, sending the attackers flying backward. The stone beneath his feet cracked further, and the mist burned away in a flash.
He stood alone again — sword in hand, eyes glowing faintly gold.
> "There you are," Veyron whispered, voice satisfied. "Welcome back… Little Prince."
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