8. Blood Upon the Gate

Chapter Eight: Blood Upon the Gate

Not all wars begin with armies. Some begin with a whisper—and end with a scream.

The first body was found just before dawn.

A guard—throat slit, eyes burned to blackened pits, mouth filled with ash. He was left at the southern gate of the Citadel, propped against the wall like a message.

By the time Kael was summoned, it was too late.

The eastern quarter was already in flames.

Screams echoed through the corridors as Kael rushed down the stone steps two at a time, sword drawn, his long coat flaring behind him. Smoke was seeping into the halls now, curling like fingers under the doors.

He turned the corner just as another explosion rocked the lower level—glass and fire tearing through the armory.

His men were already engaging the attackers: cloaked figures with red markings burned into their skin, moving with inhuman speed, blades that hissed when drawn.

Cultists.

"Protect the civilians!" Kael shouted, slicing through a man who lunged for him. Blood splattered his uniform, but he didn't flinch. "Don't let them reach the tower!"

The Phoenix cult had struck.

And they weren't here to take the Citadel.

They were here for Riven.

Riven stood in Kael's chamber, breathing hard.

He could feel them.

Their presence burned in the back of his mind like coals, like twisted threads of the same fire that lived in his veins. His body shook, magic threatening to spill out.

But he was afraid.

Afraid of what would happen if he let go again.

Of what he might become.

The door burst open.

It wasn't Kael—it was Eris, bloodied, clutching a dagger.

"They're here," she gasped. "They've breached the lower halls. You have to move."

"I can't leave."

"They'll take you," she snapped. "Or worse—she will."

A low rumble shook the tower. The sky beyond the window was no longer gray—it was red.

Not from dawn.

But from the fire swallowing the city.

Kael reached the stairwell and slammed into three cultists trying to break through the upper defenses. His blade was a blur, but he was bleeding—gashes along his arm, smoke stinging his lungs.

He barely made it to the door.

And then he saw Riven, standing there, still, glowing like a star on the edge of collapse.

Kael stumbled forward. "We need to go. Now."

Riven shook his head. "I can't. She's inside me. I feel her—pushing."

"Then let me anchor you." Kael grabbed his face, foreheads pressed. "Let me keep you here."

There was a crash below.

A cultist burst through the floor—howling, twisted by flame, eyes glowing with unnatural fire. Eris lunged for him but was thrown aside.

And the cultist spoke with her voice:

"You were born to burn the world, Flameborn. Stop pretending to be anything else."

Riven's magic erupted.

The fire surged from his chest, wild and white-hot. It consumed the cultist in seconds—but didn't stop.

Kael stood between Riven and the door, flames licking his skin, armor melting.

He didn't move.

"Kael!" Riven screamed. "You'll die—move!"

"No," Kael said, voice barely audible over the roar. "Not without you."

The fire paused.

Hung in the air like a question.

Riven's breath caught in his throat.

And then—

He pulled it back.

The flames snapped into his skin like chains, the runes on his arms glowing brighter than ever before. His eyes shimmered—gold and pain and love.

Kael collapsed to one knee, coughing smoke.

Riven knelt beside him. "You idiot."

"You pulled it back," Kael whispered. "You controlled it."

"I had to," Riven said. "You're the only thing anchoring me to this world."

They held each other as the fires raged outside. As blood soaked the halls. As the Phoenix sigil in the sky pulsed like a heartbeat.

The Citadel survived.

But barely.

Half the guards were dead. Entire districts burned. The empire had felt its first true wound.

And deep in the rubble, among the ash and bodies, a surviving cultist whispered one final prophecy:

The Flameborn has chosen love over power. So now, the Queen shall take power from love.