Chapter Sixteen: Whispers Beneath the stone

CHAPTER 16: Whispers Beneath the Stone

The path beyond Thornshade Hollow was different.

Not just in terrain—but in the air itself.

The mist no longer clung to them like claws. Instead, a dry wind danced between the trees, whispering like voices through brittle leaves. Arielle pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, glancing at Riven.

He walked in silence, as always—unbothered by the chill, his eyes scanning the trees like they were books waiting to betray their secrets.

After the riddle, something had changed between them.

Nothing visible.

Nothing spoken.

But she'd noticed how he let her walk a step closer now. How he answered her questions with full sentences instead of silence. How once—just once—he caught her elbow when she tripped and didn't let go right away.

It wasn't warmth.

Not exactly.

But it wasn't frostbite either.

By mid-afternoon, they reached the edge of a ruined outpost—a forgotten checkpoint built into the spine of the northern cliffs. Stone pillars had fallen like bones, and the path forked again. One way led around a ravine. The other disappeared into a yawning cavern.

Arielle stopped. "Do we go around or through?"

"Through," Riven said without hesitation.

She sighed. "Why am I not surprised."

"The other way takes two days."

"And this takes what? Ten minutes and a brush with death?"

He turned his head slowly toward her. "Would you rather face the cave or my brother again?"

She shivered. "Fair."

The cavern swallowed them.

Inside, the walls shimmered with old magic—sigils carved into the stone and long since faded. Arielle's magic pulsed at her fingertips, sensing something dormant.

Something not quite dead.

"I don't like this," she whispered.

"You weren't meant to."

They walked deeper. The air thickened.

And then it started.

The voices.

Not loud—not at first.

Just murmurs. Whispers. Echoes of things unsaid.

She paused. "Do you hear—"

"Don't listen," Riven said, voice suddenly sharp.

"Why?"

"They're your thoughts."

"No, they're not."

"They are," he said. "Twisted by the cave's magic. It forces you to confront what you bury."

Arielle's breath hitched.

The whispers grew louder.

You're not strong enough.

You crave him. Even now.

Your light is failing.

She stumbled.

Riven's hand closed around her wrist.

Firm.

Anchoring.

She looked up. "How do you ignore them?"

"I don't," he said. "I silence them."

"How?"

His eyes gleamed in the dim light. "I know what I am."

The voices shifted.

Now they spoke to him.

A failure. A son unworthy. A shell with no soul.

But Riven didn't flinch.

He walked with the same cold grace, jaw clenched, eyes ahead.

Arielle watched him. Studied the rigid set of his shoulders. The tension in his fingers. He was affected. Just better at hiding it.

They emerged on the other side, breathless.

Arielle sat down on a crumbled stone, heart still racing.

"I hate that place."

"It hates you back."

She looked up. "Is that a joke?"

Riven blinked slowly. "I'll let you decide."

She let out a breath that was half laugh, half curse.

Night fell.

They camped beneath the ruins of a fallen watchtower. Riven stood at the edge of their perimeter, motionless.

Arielle watched him from where she sat near the fire.

She should sleep.

She didn't.

Instead, she reached for her satchel and pulled out the torn prayer strip Drea had given her—the one meant for divine communication.

She whispered a soft invocation.

The strip didn't burn.

Didn't answer.

Just glowed faintly.

"I don't think the gods are listening," she murmured.

"They never were."

She turned.

Riven stood behind her, arms crossed.

"Do you always sneak up like that?"

"Only when I'm trying to be quiet."

She rolled her eyes. "Why are you even here?"

"You summoned something. I felt it."

"You can feel prayers?"

He gave a slow nod. "When they reach nowhere."

She blinked. "That's… depressing."

He didn't disagree.

They stood in silence for a moment.

Then, quietly, she asked, "Why don't you ever talk about yourself?"

He didn't answer.

"I just want to understand," she said. "Not everything has to be a mystery."

His eyes flicked to hers—sharp, unreadable.

"You're mistaking proximity for intimacy."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means this bond doesn't give you a right to know me. Not truly."

"But I want to—"

"Don't," he said, low and final. "You won't like what you find."

She bit the inside of her cheek, wounded but too proud to show it.

"Maybe I already have," she muttered.

He didn't reply.

Later, when she finally lay down and drifted to sleep, her dreams twisted.

Not memories.

Not visions.

But something in between.

She stood in a hall of obsidian. Mirrors lined the walls. But they didn't show her reflection.

They showed Riven.

At different ages.

A child locked in a cage of fire.

A teenager dragged by his horns before a throne of bones.

A man kneeling—bloody, bowed, alone.

Each reflection more broken than the last.

And above it all: laughter.

A voice like velvet and smoke.

"He is mine. You think he's yours?"

Arielle woke up with a scream caught in her throat.

Riven was there.

Eyes watching.

He said nothing.

Just handed her a waterskin.

She drank.

Then, quietly, "Do your brothers hate you?"

Riven didn't look at her.

"They fear me."

"Why?"

"Because they should."

She swallowed. "I saw something. A throne of bones. You were…"

He turned. Met her gaze. "It's not your vision to carry."

"But—"

"I am not your burden, priestess."

He stood and walked away.

Left her with the fire.

And her heartbeat echoing too loud in the dark.

Arielle didn't know why she kept thinking about him.

It made no sense. Riven was the enemy—or at least, he was supposed to be. A demon prince cloaked in arrogance and silence, more shadow than man, more danger than temptation. And yet…

She kept remembering that moment in the temple at Emberhaven. A little girl had tripped beside him, her ribbon falling loose from her braid. He caught it before it touched the ground—effortless, almost bored—and tucked it back into her hand. He said nothing. No smugness, no mocking grin. Just… returned it, like a man with a conscience, not a crown of bone and blood.

It was so small. Insignificant, maybe.

But it stuck with her.

Or the time he saved the little boy from being bullied.

And that was the problem.

Because everything else about him—everything—was wrong.

Riven was cruel, cold, impossible to read. He wielded silence like a blade, and when he did speak, his words were sharp enough to leave wounds. He looked at people like they were beneath him, like their lives were toys he hadn't decided whether to break or ignore. He moved through the world without remorse. No hesitation. No softness.

He reminded her, constantly, of what he was: a demon who didn't flinch at violence, who seemed to find amusement in her discomfort, who challenged her beliefs just by standing too close.

The bad outweighed the good. Hell, the bad crushed the good.

And yet… she still wondered about that one small gesture. Saving the boy, and when he handed the girl the ribbon. That flicker of something human in eyes that shouldn't have held anything warm at all.

Why did that tiny act feel louder than all the cruelty?

Why was she still curious about him?

And why, no matter how hard she tried, couldn't she look away?