Chapter 3: The desert Prince

The twin moons bled pale light over the dunes, their glow a ghostly trail across the restless spine of the Shifting Sands. Wind coiled around jagged rock and sun-bleached bone, whispering the names of those long buried beneath the desert's cruel embrace. Prince Riven Thorne stood still on a ridge, listening to those whispers.

The rebel camp below flickered with firelight, careless and exposed. A dozen small tents, half-collapsed wagons, and a scattered watch. They had grown bold — or desperate. Either way, it would end tonight.

He shifted his weight slightly, leather creaking over taut muscle. He was tall, broad, and strikingly built — a man sculpted from war and willed into silence. Sun-burnished skin stretched over a powerful frame, scars jagged like storm lines across his chest and shoulders. His features were unforgiving — high cheekbones, square jaw, straight nose, full mouth drawn into a permanent grim line.

His eyes, storm-gray and unyielding, held something more dangerous than fury.

Purpose.

And pain.

Behind him, the desert wind carried the low murmurs of his warband. Seven of them in total — a number small enough to seem insignificant, but together, they had torn through armies.

Kael, his closest friend, cleaned his curved blade with calm ritual. His hair was braided back, his expression taut with focus.

Torren whistled low as he flexed his knuckles. "Rebels got sloppy. Think they want to die tonight."

"I'd be honored to assist," Idris muttered. The youngest of them, still prayerful before battle, his fingers worked beads carved with sacred runes.

Theron sat sharpening his axe, dark hair falling over one eye. "Sloppy doesn't mean harmless."

"They're bait," Malen said from where he crouched beside a dune map drawn in the sand. "Their formation is a lie. Look at the fire pattern — wide spread, no central command. They want us to think it's a single encampment."

"They'll be hiding archers in the stone ridge," Kael added, rising to his feet. "The same trick as Sareth's gorge."

Syrina, silent till now, adjusted Riven's saddle without being asked. Her hands moved with practiced care, but her eyes... they were locked on him. Not with concern — with something rawer.

Need. Devotion. Hunger buried too deep to name.

"You should ride behind the flank tonight," Kael murmured to her.

"I ride where my blade is needed," she said, cold and clipped.

Riven said nothing. But he felt the tension—her jealousy, Kael's quiet awareness of it.

He turned back to the valley. "We strike fast. Hit their main camp, then circle west to flush out the ambushers. No prisoners."

A grim nod passed through the warband. The ritual was done.

Then the wind shifted, and with it, the rhythm of death began.

The desert exploded with movement.

Hooves thundered across packed sand. Steel flashed in moonlight. War cries echoed as the warband split and surged forward like wolves descending on crippled prey.

Riven rode at the front, hair pulled back, blade drawn. His stallion galloped straight into the fray, his eyes fixed on a rebel commander already scrambling to retreat.

He struck first — a clean arc of silver — and the man crumpled.

Kael flanked left, driving his curved blade through the chest of a spearman. Theron's axe broke shields in two. Idris whispered prayers with every swing, carving runes mid-strike. Torren fought with wild joy, spinning like flame. Malen barked tactical commands, reading the field like a living map.

Syrina moved like liquid shadow — fast, furious, precise. But her gaze flicked to Riven often. Too often.

Then came the trap.

From above, arrows screamed down — black-feathered, poison-tipped.

Riven spun his horse, slicing one mid-air. But another found its mark.

Pain burst through his side — white-hot and nauseating. He grunted, nearly falling from his saddle.

"Ambush!" Malen roared. "Fall back!"

The battlefield turned.

Screams. Blood. Sand churned beneath hooves as they retreated toward cover, hauling the wounded.

Kael's horse caught a bolt in the haunch and collapsed. Torren carried him clear.

"Riven—!" Syrina screamed, riding toward him.

But he waved her off. "To the ridge. Go!"

He barely made it to the canyon edge before slipping from his horse. His knees hit sand. Blood soaked his tunic. He collapsed onto his side, arm clutched to the wound.

Darkness reached for him like water.

But instead of falling—

He remembered.

Fire. Smoke. A battlefield five years ago. Sareth's Pass.

Bodies — friend and foe — piled like discarded history. Among them, one had fallen closest.

A man with gold eyes and a wolf grin. Daxan.

Riven's blood brother. His second soul.

An arrow to the throat. Fast. Unfair. Final.

Riven had screamed once. Just once. Enough to shatter his own voice.

He had never mourned aloud.

Never forgiven himself.

Now, back in the present, he slipped into trance.

Elven blood called to ancient realms between dreams and waking.

And there she was.

A woman of starlight.

Long hair drifted like a veil of midnight. Her skin shimmered with pale gold. Her eyes—gods, her eyes—burned like galaxies.

"You were meant to burn," she whispered, stepping forward.

"And I was born from your ashes."

His heart stopped. His hand reached.

She faded into smoke.

He woke with a gasp, ribs screaming.

The firelight flickered low.

Kael was by his side, binding the wound.

"Welcome back," he said dryly.

Riven sat up, teeth clenched. "Casualties?"

"Two dead. Four injured. Not counting you."

"Damn it." His hand trembled. Not from pain — from the vision.

"She spoke again."

Kael's gaze sharpened.

Syrina looked up from where she was tending Idris's wound. She didn't speak, but her stillness deepened.

"The same woman?" Kael asked.

Riven nodded. "Clearer. She said we're... connected. That she was born from my fire."

"What does that mean?" Idris asked. "Prophecy?"

"Something more."

He stared at the flames, the pain in his side forgotten.

"I felt her. Not as a vision. As a memory I haven't lived yet."

Later, alone in his tent, Syrina came to re-bandage his wound. She said nothing. But her fingers trembled.

"You're quiet tonight," Riven said.

"I watched you nearly die." Her voice was a blade. "Again."

"I didn't ask to be followed."

"I wasn't following." She tied the bandage tighter than needed. "I was protecting you."

He caught her wrist.

Her breath hitched.

"You're not just a soldier, Syrina. You're..."

"I'm loyal," she said quickly, pulling away. "That's all."

He watched her leave — eyes sharp, unreadable.

Outside the tent, Kael stood waiting.

"She'll break soon," he said quietly.

Riven looked away. "We all do."

Just before dawn, a rider approached — dusty, panicked, and fast.

Kael intercepted him, returning with a scroll marked with Thornehold's gold crest.

Riven read it by firelight.

Prince Riven,

Your prolonged absence has stirred questions. There is unrest in the court. Certain factions have voiced concern over your tactics and defiance.

*You are hereby summoned to appear before the High Council within ten days.

Be wary. Trust few. The rebellion may not be the only threat.*

—King Eldric

Riven's jaw locked. A pulse ticked at his temple.

First an ambush. Now betrayal from his own court?

He folded the scroll.

"Prepare to move," he said.

"Where?" Kael asked.

"The Ashwood Border. Something's pulling us there."

Malen raised a brow. "Is this about the vision?"

Riven stared toward the eastern horizon, where the dunes shimmered.

"She's real," he whispered. "And I think... she's waiting."

The wind shifted again.

Far beyond the desert, across the forests of Ashwood—

A girl stirred in her sleep.

Wrapped in moonlight, tangled in dreams, Aeris Valerien murmured a name she'd never heard before.

"Riven."

And in the silence, the stars flared just a little brighter.