Chapter 8: Riven's Shadow

The desert wind carried the scent of old ashes.

Riven stood at the ridge overlooking Kareth, the troubled outpost town nestled between sun-split rocks. What was once a proud farming village now sprawled in silence, its roofs dulled by dust, its granaries locked tight. Not a single flag flew, and the gates creaked open late.

They hadn't expected him.

The guards scrambled upon seeing the black-cloaked warband approach. One dropped his spear. Another ran. A horn stuttered weakly in the distance.

Lord Ashek stood at the threshold of the town square, robes hastily donned, sweat dampening his collar. He bowed low — too low. Too late.

"Your Highness," he stammered, "we were not told—"

"You weren't supposed to be," Riven cut in, voice cold as stone.

The warband fanned out behind him, their boots heavy on the broken tiles. Kael, Syrina, and the others said nothing, but their eyes missed nothing.

Riven scanned the scene. The lords were fat. Their servants sluggish. And the people — hollow-eyed, thin, watching from behind barred shutters.

"Where are the tribute records?" Riven asked flatly. "Tax ledgers. Grain logs. Bring them."

Ashek blanched. "The last caravan—"

"There hasn't been a tribute from Kareth in three cycles," Kael growled.

"The roads," Ashek offered weakly. "Bandits. Delays."

"And your belly grows fat while your people starve?"

Riven stepped closer. "Open your granaries."

The silence that followed was deafening.

When the locks were broken, they found what they expected: full stores, sealed barrels, hoarded grains. And in the far stall — huddled families, locked inside.

Kael turned away with clenched fists.

Riven didn't raise his voice.

"Why were your own people locked in a storehouse?"

Ashek stammered, sweat now beading on his temple. "They were sick — disorderly — I had to keep order—"

"You kept them like cattle," Riven snapped. "Where is the money? The crops? You send nothing to the capital. So where does it all go?"

Ashek dropped to his knees. "Please, your Highness. It was never meant— I did what I thought was right—"

"What you thought was right fed you and starved them."

Riven turned to his men. "Strip him of his seal. He'll be held until trial."

The townsfolk began to gather then — uncertain, blinking against the light. One little girl reached for her mother's hand. Another clutched a carved charm shaped like a star.

Riven looked out at the crowd, at their hope and disbelief.

"You are not forgotten," he said quietly.

By nightfall, the village was alive.

The fires were lit again in the square — not to burn fear, but to cook food. Spices returned to the air. Doors opened.

Children laughed. Markets reappeared like flowers from the stone. Women stood in doorways braiding one another's hair. Old men strummed dusty instruments. Someone unearthed a barrel of wine.

The warband mingled.

Kael tossed bread to a group of wide-eyed children near the well. Idris and Malen lost a drinking game to two teenage boys who cheered loud enough to wake ancestors. Torren showed a young hunter how to knot a leather sling. Even Theron, usually silent, played his bone flute atop a roof.

Syrina healed a girl's ankle, gently. When the child asked, "Are you the prince's wife?" — she didn't answer. She simply stood and walked away.

Riven lingered on the outskirts, watching.

A little girl approached him — the same one with the star-shaped charm. Her fingers trembled.

"I had a dream," she whispered, eyes big. "A girl in a glowing forest. She was crying. She said your name."

Riven knelt.

"What name?"

"Riven," the girl said.

His breath caught.

Kael approached. "You're thinking of the priest, aren't you?"

Riven nodded. "East of here. Old ruins near the cliffs. They say he's blind but sees more than most."

"And you believe he'll know what the mark means?"

"I believe the stars," Riven murmured. "And I believe her."

Later that night, Riven took watch at the village edge. Wind stirred nothing. Then — a snap.

A shadow darted across the sand. Too fast. Too quiet.

He gave chase.

The figure leapt over stone, slipping past old stalls and crumbled shrines. Riven followed until he tackled the intruder near the temple ruins.

Steel clashed.

Then the mask fell.

A sigil burned on the rogue's neck — Talien's mark.

"Why are you watching this place?" Riven snarled.

"She burns," the man gasped, bleeding. "And he watches."

"Who?"

But the poison took him before he answered.

Riven stared at the body for a long time.

As dawn broke, he stood with Kael by the stables. The village still buzzed behind them — laughter, clinking pans, dogs barking.

But Riven's eyes remained on the desert horizon.

Kael said, "We'll hold here until word comes from the capital."

Riven nodded. "Send riders to the next province. Post a steward for Kareth. Someone with a spine."

"And the girl in the dream?"

Riven looked at the charm still clutched in his hand.

"She's waiting."