Ashes and Bloodlines
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The ruins of Valenhold were still burning.
Not literally—no flame remained after all these years. But the memory of fire lingered in the charred stones, in the twisted metal that once formed gates of gold, and in the scorched bones scattered beneath the cracked mosaic of the royal crest.
Three swords. One severed.
That was the symbol on the old tiles.
But time had broken it further.
Now all three were cracked.
---
Riven stood at the threshold of what had once been a palace.
Not grand like the towers of Arcanon, or ornate like the merchant courts of Myrelith. Valenhold was built for strength—its walls high, its halls wide, its towers few. Everything about it had spoken of simplicity, discipline, and readiness for war.
Now it was a skeleton.
"Are you sure about this?" Kael asked, scanning the broken arches above.
"No," Riven answered.
But he stepped forward anyway.
---
They descended through the main hall, boots crunching on rubble and ash.
Lyra stayed close behind. Liora traced the wardlines etched into the crumbling stone. Elen scouted ahead, though the quietness in her movements had taken on a heavier weight than usual.
Kael muttered, "Feels like walking through someone's grave."
"It is," Riven said. "All of them."
---
The library was buried beneath the east wing.
It had been sealed—not just collapsed, but bound, with layers of fire wards and elemental locks. The very air around it buzzed with ancient magic, designed to ignite intruders where they stood.
Only Riven could pass.
Because it was his name burned into the first lock.
> RIVEN CAELTHORN VALENHART
Not etched.
Burned.
As if even the stone had once been alive enough to recognize him.
---
The descent into the library felt more like a descent into a crypt.
Liora lit the way with a single spiritflame orb, casting flickering light across the soot-stained walls. Books still rested on some shelves—too fragile to touch, most reduced to brittle shadows.
But not all.
At the heart of the room stood a pedestal.
And on it: a single, sealed codex. Bound in crimson leather. Wrapped in silver chains. No dust on it. No decay.
Preserved by intention.
By blood.
Riven approached.
The pendant around his neck pulsed again, reacting to the air, to the place, to the truth buried inside.
He placed his hand on the chains.
And they unraveled.
---
The codex opened on its own.
Its pages shimmered faintly, ink glowing with a reddish hue. The writing wasn't inked with quill or pen—it was etched with fire, scorched into the parchment itself.
He read.
The others waited.
And then he stopped.
"What is it?" Lyra asked, stepping forward.
Riven looked up, voice hollow. "It wasn't an accident."
"What wasn't?"
"The Fall of Valenhold."
He turned the codex toward her.
On the page: a pact seal. The crest of the Valenhart line… entwined with a symbol older than any royal house.
The mark of the Primordial Flame.
---
Kael cursed. "That's not possible. The Primordials vanished centuries ago."
"Not all of them," Liora said quietly.
Riven's voice was steady. "My father made a pact with one of them. Not for power. For protection."
Lyra stared at the seal. "He gave up something. What was the price?"
Riven hesitated.
"Me."
---
They stared at him.
He didn't flinch.
"The pact was forged after the Eclipse began whispering through the inner courts. Seris wasn't the only one. There were others—nobles, mages, generals—who turned. My father knew war was coming."
"So he made a deal," Kael said. "To shield you?"
Riven nodded. "A bloodline vow. The Primordial bound my soul to itself—to hide me, protect me from memory tampering. From death. Even from time."
Liora's brow furrowed. "But that kind of vow…"
Riven's voice dropped. "It meant I could never truly be just human again."
---
The silence that followed was thick.
Riven closed the codex and stepped back.
"I wasn't saved," he said. "I was stored. Like a weapon. Buried until the kingdom needed me."
"And now it does," Lyra whispered.
"No," Riven said. "Now I decide if it deserves me."
---
Outside, a tremor shook the eastern ridge.
Elen returned from the shadows, eyes sharp. "We've got company."
"Cultists?" Kael asked, already drawing his blade.
Elen shook her head. "Worse. Flameborn."
Riven narrowed his eyes. "The spirits left behind."
"They've been stirred," Liora said. "By you. By your name."
Riven nodded.
"Then let them come."
---
The Flameborn erupted from the broken chapel—twisted shapes of molten steel and ash, howling with the rage of spirits abandoned.
Riven stepped forward alone.
He didn't draw his blade.
He drew the pendant.
And spoke a name no one had heard in centuries.
> "Igniveth."
The world paused.
The flames recoiled.
And the largest Flameborn—an armored titan of seared black and gold—knelt.
Not in worship.
In recognition.
> "Valenhart," it rumbled.
> "You have returned."
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