The sky was on fire.
Not with flames—but with memory.
Riven woke in a crater. The earth around him was scorched black, littered with broken weapons and charred corpses that no longer had names. His head throbbed. His tongue was dry. There was blood on his hands, dried and flaking, but not his.
He sat up slowly. His clothes were torn. His shirt hung in scraps, revealing a jagged crest seared into his chest—black as ash, glowing faintly.
He didn't know what it meant.
He didn't know who he was.
The only thing he did know was the blade beside him—cold steel, chipped at the hilt, scorched down the center. His fingers closed around it like they'd done so a thousand times before. And somehow, it fit.
He staggered to his feet. The wind was hot. The sky was bleeding orange, painted in streaks of smoke and dying light. He looked around—nothing but ruin. A battlefield long forgotten.
And then, the sky cracked open.
Riven stumbled back as the clouds split—literally torn—and something came crashing down like a comet wrapped in flame.
A girl.
Or at least, something shaped like one.
She hit the earth not ten feet from him, sending waves of heat in every direction. Dirt exploded. Sparks danced across the ground.
He lifted an arm to shield his face, nearly falling again.
And when the smoke cleared, she was there.
Slumped on one knee, steam rising from her skin, flame licking at her hair before vanishing like it never existed. Her body radiated heat—not just warmth, but something more primal, more unstable.
Her eyes blinked open.
Golden. Glowing. Focused straight on him.
"…Ashen," she whispered.
He flinched. "What?"
"You… it's you."
She surged forward—fast, too fast.
Before he could react, she tackled him to the ground, her hand on his chest, right over the burning crest. Their faces were inches apart.
He felt everything at once—heat spreading across his skin, a pull in his chest, his mind flickering with flashes he didn't recognize: a tower burning, a girl screaming, a crown breaking in his hand.
She gasped and recoiled, her body arching as if in pain.
"Stop!" he shouted, pushing her off instinctively.
They rolled apart, panting. Steam rose from their bodies.
She landed on her hands and knees, breathing hard. Her clothes were torn at the shoulders, revealing intricate flame-shaped tattoos that shimmered when she moved.
"What the hell are you?" he asked.
She looked up—eyes blazing again. "I should ask you that."
He picked up the blade beside him. "I'm not here to fight."
"Too bad," she said.
She lunged again—but this time, he caught her wrist. She twisted, trying to flip him, but he anchored his weight. They tumbled, crashed, rolled across the scorched grass—and she ended up straddling him, both of them covered in sweat and dust.
Her hair hung over his face. A drop of sweat fell onto his lips. He froze. She did too.
"You're... really warm," he muttered, dazed.
She blinked, then shoved herself off with a frustrated growl.
"Not now," she said, standing. "We don't have time. They'll be coming."
"Who?"
"The Black Knights. They hunt anything with Ashen blood."
"I don't even know what that means."
"You don't remember anything?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
He stood slowly, still gripping the blade. "No. Just my name. Riven."
Her expression flickered. "That name… it's forbidden in my clan."
He frowned. "That so?"
Before she could answer, the air shifted—cold now. Heavy.
A sound echoed across the ruined battlefield: metallic hooves striking stone, cloaked figures moving in formation.
"They're here," she whispered.
From the far ridge, knights in obsidian armor emerged—tall, silent, faceless. No banners. No words. Just the glint of cursed steel.
The girl grabbed his arm.
"We need to move. Now."
He hesitated.
"Do you want to live?" she snapped.
"…Yeah."
"Then run."
They sprinted across the battlefield—her hand gripping his wrist, dragging him faster than he thought possible. Fire bloomed at her heels, forming trails that curved behind them like protective serpents.
Arrows whistled past.
One scraped his shoulder. He winced.
She turned and threw up a wall of fire—forcing the archers back.
They ducked behind a half-collapsed statue—an angel with shattered wings.
He clutched his bleeding shoulder. She knelt beside him, pressing her glowing hand to the wound. He winced again—but it stopped bleeding.
"You can heal?"
"Basic fireblood control. Don't get used to it."
He looked at her—at the fierce eyes, the way her lips trembled though she looked composed.
"You saved me."
"Shut up," she muttered. "I just didn't want to carry your corpse."
He smiled, despite himself.
The voice returned.
"This world remembers what you forgot."
He looked around. "Did you hear that?"
She shook her head. "Hear what?"
"…Never mind."
She stood, pulling him with her. "There's a place. A tavern that appears only to the lost. We can hide there. Regroup."
"A tavern?"
"Don't question it. Just follow me."
And they ran—through the trees, into the shadows, into something stranger than fate itself.
---
Later that night…
The tavern rose from the fog like a dream.
No doors. No windows. Just walls and the smell of roasted meat.
She pressed her hand to the side. It shimmered—and opened.
Inside, the air was warm, candlelit, filled with the sound of quiet harp music. A man with no face polished glasses behind the bar.
They sat at a booth. She finally exhaled.
"You owe me a lot," she said.
He raised a brow. "You tackled me. Twice."
"Still counts."
A pause.
"…Thank you," he said quietly.
She looked away. "It's Kaela. My name."
He nodded. "Riven."
"I know."
He studied her. "Why did you come for me?"
She hesitated. "Because… you once saved me. A long time ago. I don't think you remember."
He didn't.
But something in his chest stirred—like embers that never fully died.