⚠️ Disclaimer: This story contains mild rude and abusive language, emotional themes, and scenes of war and violence. Reader discretion is advised.
Start Of Chapter 1:
The valley still stank of ash.
Even after all these years, it clung to the stones, to the dying soil, to Riven Alden's lungs like a damn curse that refused to leave. He stood where the gates of Caelhold once rose, the ancient ironwood doors that had guarded his father's castle — now shattered and charred, their blackened remains buried under weeds and silence.
The wind was dry. It whispered through the ruins like a ghost's breath, curling around the broken spires, tugging at the scorched flags that hadn't flown in a decade.
Riven's boots crunched on the gravel. One step after another.
He had waited ten fucking years to come back here. Ten years of exile, of running, hiding, sharpening hatred like a blade. He was no longer the kid who screamed under falling stone, who crawled through smoke dragging his sister's lifeless body. That boy had burned with the rest of the house. What stood here now was a man stitched together from revenge and rage, a bastard born from fire and unfinished murder.
His fingers gripped the hilt of his sword, Ashwake was the weapon forged from the melted bones of the Alden ancestral steel. Its edge still held the soul of the past. It hummed when he passed the grave of the stonemason who once carved the palace stairs.
"Still rotting, old man?" Riven muttered bitterly, even though he knew there were no answers here. Just bones. Forgotten, wasted ones.
He stepped over what remained of the courtyard — now just a pit of dust and collapsed walls. The place had been gutted like a carcass, stripped of stone, looted of gold, and pissed on by time. Even the statues of the gods had been knocked over, their faces shattered and smeared with birdshit. The land itself had been cursed to silence.
"Fucking cowards," he spat.
The Betrayer Kings had wanted this. Wanted the world to forget Caelhold, to forget his name, to erase his bloodline like a smudge on a map.
But the dead didn't forget. And neither did Riven.
He reached the central keep — or what was left of it — and knelt near the foundation stone, a slab of gray rock engraved with his family crest: a flame wrapped around a broken sword. He traced the carving with a cracked finger, jaw tight.
Beneath it, a small iron box lay buried. He knew where to dig.
Three feet down. He scraped the dirt with his hands, shoving away roots and rocks, until metal scraped fingernails.
Inside the box: a toy soldier with one leg missing. A stone pendant painted blue. And a letter, sealed in wax.
He didn't open it.
Instead, he sat back, legs crossed, staring at the ruin around him. The ghosts here weren't loud — they didn't moan or wail — but they pressed down on his bones, heavy and rotten. He lit a small fire with flint and dry grass, letting the smoke curl upward like a memory. He didn't cry. He hadn't cried since the last time someone called him prince — right before that man had his fucking throat slit open for turning traitor.
Riven took the pendant and put it around his neck. It was his sister's. Maybe that was why the flames didn't feel as cold now.
"Alright," he said aloud, voice hoarse. "Let's begin."
The first outpost was only a half-day's walk from the valley. A ragged wooden structure flying the red-black crest of the Highlord Bastien.
The same bastard who had driven the blade through his father's ribs on the Night of Silencing.
"Would you like a bed, traveler?" the soldier asked as Riven approached, hood pulled low. "Only two copper if you're not picky."
Riven stared at the man's teeth as he smiled — yellowed, crooked.
"No," Riven said. "I'd like to speak to your captain."
The soldier blinked. "You a merchant?"
"I'm the storm you bastards forgot."
Then Ashwake sang.
Steel met flesh. The blade carved up through the soldier's belly, catching in his ribs with a wet crunch. Blood sprayed the wooden post behind him like it owed him something.
"Sound the alarm!" someone screamed.
Too fucking late.
Riven moved like fire — fast, brutal, without mercy. He had spent a decade fighting for scraps in the frozen wastes, training with madmen and exile blades, bleeding beside rebels and mercenaries. These outpost rats were nothing but piss-soaked amateurs in rusted mail.
He killed six before the captain even staggered out of his tent.
And when the bastard came out — fat, reeking of stale wine and cowardice, drawing his short sword with hands that trembled — Riven didn't say much.
He just stared.
The man's eyes went wide. "W-Wait, I know you — you're one of the—"
"Say my name," Riven growled.
"Riven—"
The blade went through his fucking mouth.
No speeches. No begging. No forgiveness.
He dragged the corpse to the center post and hung it upside down, carving into the wooden beam the words:
FOR THE BLOOD THAT WAS STOLEN
Then he torched the whole fucking place.
Not with magic. Just oil, torch, and hate.
Smoke rose like a black banner.
By morning, the smoke was visible across the hills. Farmers and drunkards whispered. The wind carried his message louder than any trumpet.
Back in the ruins, Riven sat on the old stones again, soaked in blood, breath ragged. He looked east — toward Arvendale, where Queen Virel ruled with her fake-ass smiles and gold-plated lies.
He would go there next.
"Three names," he whispered, almost smirking.
"Three fucking graves."
Flashback: Ten Years Ago
He remembered running barefoot through the halls, fire chewing up the walls, his sister screaming, "They're killing everyone!"
His mother had tried to reach the throne room.
The guards had turned on them like goddamn dogs.
He remembered a soldier — someone he had trusted calling him "filthy royal trash" before swinging his axe. Riven had stabbed him in the throat with a dinner knife.
He hadn't stopped shaking for days.
Back to Present
Now his hands didn't shake.
Now he knew what he was.
Not a prince. Not a hero.
Just a storm with a fucking name.