The Interrogation

The chamber was cold, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and old blood. Riven sat in the center of the dimly lit room, his wrists shackled to the steel arms of the interrogation chair. Not because the Organization thought he couldn't escape, but because they wanted to test his patience—to see if he would try.

A single lantern swayed overhead, casting distorted shadows against the walls. But even in the flickering light, Riven could feel his own shadow moving unnaturally, pulsing with something primal and alive. It wasn't just the room watching him. It was them.

Across from him, Commander Veydris stood with arms folded behind his back, his posture relaxed yet commanding. He was a man who rarely wasted words, whose presence alone could crush lesser men into submission. His uniform was pristine, adorned with the insignia of the Organization—an entity that thrived on control.

He stepped forward, his boots clicking against the stone floor. "Your sister was a warrior of the highest order." His voice was smooth, deliberate. "You were nothing."

Riven's jaw clenched, but he didn't take the bait.

Veydris smirked, leaning in slightly. "And yet, here you are, killing like her… but with power no one should have. Where did it come from?"

Riven stared back, silent.

Veydris studied him for a long moment before shaking his head. "We've been watching. Your shadow fights on its own. Your power isn't learned. It's in your blood, isn't it?"

Riven said nothing, but his fingers curled into fists.

At that moment, his shadow twitched. It wasn't just a flicker—it convulsed violently, stretching unnaturally before snapping back into place. The guards flanking the room shifted uneasily, hands tightening around their weapons. They had seen monsters before, but this? This was something else.

Veydris chuckled, completely unfazed. "You think you have a choice?" He took another step forward. "You either prove your loyalty… or you never leave this room."

The threat was clear. And if Riven knew anything about the Organization, it wasn't an empty one.

His lips curled into a defiant smirk. "I don't owe you answers."

Veydris merely exhaled, shaking his head in amusement. "Spoken like someone who has no idea what's coming next."

Before Riven could reply, the door to the chamber burst open.

A scout staggered in, blood streaking his uniform. "Commander! We're under attack. Rival faction. They've breached the perimeter."

The tension in the room shifted instantly. The guards turned toward the scout, while Veydris remained eerily calm, as if he had expected this.

"Well then," he muttered, glancing back at Riven. "Looks like you get to prove yourself sooner than expected."

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed a blade toward Riven. Instinct took over. His fingers wrapped around the hilt before he even processed what had happened.

Veydris smiled. "Let's see if you're worth keeping alive."

The moment Riven stepped out of the chamber, the world exploded into chaos. The underground facility trembled from distant blasts, and the metallic scent of blood filled the air.

A rival faction—one that had been lying in wait, biding their time—had finally struck.

The corridor leading out of the interrogation block was lined with bodies, some wearing the insignia of the Organization, others bearing unfamiliar marks. Riven recognized the enemy's armor—mercenaries from the Ashen Pact, a ruthless faction that thrived on war. Unlike the Organization, they didn't seek to control power. They sought to consume it.

A group of them stormed the hallway ahead, blades gleaming in the dim light.

Veydris unsheathed his own sword, his smirk never fading. "Time to earn your keep, Shadowborn."

The word sent a jolt down Riven's spine.

Shadowborn.

Did they know? Did they suspect? It didn't matter now. The enemy was coming, and he didn't have time to think.

His fingers tightened around the weapon Veydris had tossed him. It wasn't his own—it felt foreign, unfamiliar—but a blade was a blade.

The Ashen Pact warriors lunged.

Riven moved.

His body acted before his mind could catch up. His shadow surged forward, faster than his own movement, stretching across the ground like a living beast. The first enemy barely had time to react before a tendril of darkness wrapped around his throat and snapped.

A second warrior swung for Riven's chest, but his shadow pulled him sideways at the last moment, making the attack miss by a hair's breadth. Riven countered, driving his blade into the attacker's side.

It wasn't just a fight—it was a massacre.

His shadow moved on its own, attacking, consuming, tearing through enemies like a beast unleashed.

Veydris watched, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Interest. Amusement. Calculation.

By the time the last enemy fell, Riven was breathing heavily, his hands trembling slightly. His shadow, still writhing unnaturally, slowly retracted, returning to its usual, subdued state.

Silence fell.

Veydris exhaled, stepping over a corpse. "I'll admit… I didn't expect you to last this long."

Riven wiped the blood from his cheek, his gaze unwavering. "Guess I'm full of surprises."

The commander chuckled. "That you are."

He turned to the remaining Organization soldiers. "Secure the perimeter. We've entertained these rats long enough."

As the troops moved to carry out orders, Veydris turned back to Riven.

"You're not just some rogue with borrowed power. You have history, and history means secrets. And secrets?" He smiled. "Secrets are currency."

Riven stared at him, his heartbeat slowing.

"You said I had to prove myself." His voice was calm. Controlled. "Did I?"

Veydris studied him for a long moment before smirking. "For now."

Then he stepped closer, voice dropping lower. "But make no mistake, Shadowborn. The Organization owns what it understands. And what it doesn't?" He leaned in. "It destroys."

A challenge. A warning. A promise.

Riven didn't flinch.

If they wanted to control him, they had no idea what kind of monster they were trying to leash.

The battle had ended, but the real war had just begun.

And Riven had already chosen his side.

His own.