Apurv_4942

In a world ruled by warring factions, power is everything. Born powerless, Riven was destined to be forgotten—until his sister, a legendary warrior, was assassinated before his eyes. Rage and grief awakened something ancient within him: Shadowbound Powers, allowing him to raise and command the fallen.

Believed dead, he hides in a low-ranking faction, secretly growing his army of shadows. But when his true strength is revealed, whispers spread, and The Organization—the same force that watched his sister die—calls him in. They’ve been watching all along, waiting for him to break.

But he has his own plans. The war between factions is only the beginning. He won’t just survive. He will rise.

Shadowbound: Rise of the Forgotten

Riven sat in the dimly lit chamber, his body aching from the strain of summoning Selene's shadow. The flickering torches cast distorted shadows on the walls, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw her standing among them—watching, waiting.

But when he blinked, she was gone.

His fists clenched. He had tried. He had pushed beyond his limits, stretching his power farther than ever before, and yet—she hadn't come. Not fully. The wraith-like figure he had summoned bore only fragments of her. No voice. No mind. Just a whisper of what she once was.

Riven exhaled, closing his eyes, listening to the murmurs of the absorbed souls within him. They fought for dominance, some whispering madness, others screaming for release. The weight of them pressed against his mind like an iron vice.

You're not ready.

The thought cut through him like a blade. It wasn't just power he lacked—it was control. Strength alone wouldn't bring Selene back. If he couldn't stabilize his hold over his shadows, then she would be nothing more than an echo, a mindless puppet like the others.

Riven pushed himself to his feet. Pain lanced through his limbs, but he forced himself to move. He had work to do.

The world outside the Organization's stronghold was shifting. Whispers spread like wildfire—stories of an unseen force wiping out small factions under the cover of darkness. Fighters vanishing without a trace, bodies never found, entire warbands disappearing in the night.

Some called it a curse. Others, a demon.

The Organization knew the truth: Riven Graves was moving.

He had started small. Isolated warbands, groups of mercenaries, minor factions that preyed on the weak. He chose his targets carefully—warriors with strong abilities, enemies whose deaths would strengthen his army. The stronger they were, the more power he gained.

He didn't just kill them. He erased them.

Riven knelt beside a fresh corpse, the body still warm. His shadow slithered out, creeping over the fallen warrior like ink spreading through water. The process had become easier now. More natural. The moment their life left them, he could feel the pull, the connection forming between them.

The shadow pulsed. A new voice whispered in his mind, lost and disoriented.

Riven stood, the new shade settling within his growing army.

He turned his gaze toward the horizon. Another target awaited.

Unbeknownst to Riven, his actions had not gone unnoticed.

Deep in the ruins of a forgotten stronghold, the rogue faction watched. They had long believed that every faction—no matter their allegiance—was corrupt, and they sought to wipe them all out.

And now, something—or someone—had begun doing their work for them.

The faction's leader, a man draped in tattered robes, leaned forward in his throne of broken steel. His voice was a low murmur, but it carried power.

"The Ghost of War," he said, testing the name that had begun to spread. "A soldier who fights in the shadows… and leaves none behind."

He smirked. "We should pay him a visit."

The warriors gathered before him nodded, their expressions grim.

The hunt had begun.