Chapter 12 - Blood and Silence

Riven dropped to his knees, both hands pressed against the cold, damp earth. His entire body trembled, not just from exhaustion, but from the fading remnants of tension still clinging to his nerves. His breathing was ragged, as if he'd just pulled himself back from the edge of death.

He turned his head slightly, casting a glance at the body of the man he had just killed. The man's eyes were open, lifeless, staring up at the night sky as if searching for answers it would never give. Blood still seeped from the wound in his chest, forming a small pool that slowly soaked into the soil.

Riven lowered his gaze to the sword in his hand.

Crysthalis.

The blade, once blazing with light, now glowed faintly, casting a pale golden shimmer that felt cool to the touch. Only now did Riven begin to understand, this sword could absorb the force of physical attacks… and return them. A weapon unlike anything he had ever dreamed of possessing.

And yet, there was no pride in his chest. Only emptiness.

After a few long breaths, he forced himself to stand, still shaking. He grabbed the dead man's body and began to drag it. The flesh was cold and heavy, but Riven didn't stop. Step by step, he pulled it through the forest, past trees veiled in shadow, until he reached a small, slow-moving river hidden beneath the canopy.

Without hesitation, he pushed the corpse into the water. The sound of the body hitting the current was faint, barely noticeable. Riven stood at the river's edge and watched it float away, slowly disappearing into the fog.

"You made a mistake," he whispered. "You should've killed me this afternoon."

Silence.

The water kept flowing. The world didn't care.

But Riven couldn't rest. There was still more to be done.

Blood trails.

Though the intruders from the Arkham Kingdom were dead, that didn't mean they were safe. If soldiers from Belmore or even nearby villagers found the trail of blood and signs of battle, he and Mira could end up in serious trouble.

Unsteady on his feet, he returned to the site, gathered the weapons he had collected into a sack, and slung it over his shoulder. Heavy, but the weight on his mind was worse.

He walked home in silence. The night was so still, each step on the dirt path echoed louder than it should have.

When he arrived, the door was wide open. Mira stood in the doorway, her face a mixture of anger and panic.

"You said five minutes!" she snapped, eyes red with emotion.

Riven didn't reply.

"I was about to go looking for you!"

Still, he said nothing. Just lowered his head. There was no excuse he could offer.

Mira glared at him, her breathing sharp with frustration. But when she really looked at him—his clothes smeared with blood and mud, his body barely upright—her anger slowly faded.

"…What happened?" she asked softly.

Riven turned his gaze away. "I'll explain later. But right now… I need to go back out."

"What?!"

"The blood trail," he said shortly. "If someone finds it, we're in danger. I need to erase it."

Mira bit her lip. Doubt and fear filled her face.

"But… look at you. You can barely stand…"

Riven looked at her, his voice calmer this time. "I'll be fine. This is for us."

After a moment of tense silence, Mira nodded slowly. "Then hurry back…"

He nodded in return and stepped into the house briefly to grab a shovel and a bucket. Mira watched him with growing unease, unsure of what he needed them for. She wanted to ask—but felt afraid of the answer.

Riven stepped outside again without a word. As his footsteps faded, Mira walked back into the bedroom, where the mysterious woman still lay motionless.

Her face was pale, her breathing weak but steadier than before. The wounds across her body hadn't healed, yet it seemed she was no longer in danger of bleeding out.

Mira sat beside the bed, studying her sleeping face. There was something peaceful about her expression, almost childlike in its calm.

Hard to believe that this was the woman the dying man had called the "reincarnation of ruin."

"Who are you… really?" Mira whispered.

No answer came.

The night deepened. A gentle breeze passed through the cracked window. Moonlight spilled into the room, casting soft silver across the faces of the two sleeping figures—one from pain, the other from sheer exhaustion.

And outside, in the cold darkness, Riven returned to the trail of blood. A shovel in one hand, Crysthalis strapped to his back, he moved through the trees, ready to erase every trace of death that might bring danger back to their doorstep.

.

.

.

Clouds hung low overhead as his boots sank into the soil near the fortress, ground that had nearly fallen into enemy hands. Had he arrived any later, this place would've been lost.

Survivors lined the stone road, standing in silence. Some still bled from fresh wounds. Others could only slump against walls, trembling, eyes hollow with fatigue. But more than pain, more than weariness, one thing filled their gazes as they watched the approaching figure.

Fear.

She walked slowly, with poise, her presence like the chill before a storm.

She still wore her armor—jet-black, light, etched with faded gold along the collar and shoulders. It didn't clink when she moved. It had become part of her. A dark red cloak trailed behind her, torn and dusty from wind and war, its color resembling dried blood beneath a winter moon.

But it was her helmet that stole their breath.

A terrifying work of craftsmanship, it looked like the creation of some mad god. Forged like a golden mask, adorned with jagged metallic spines that curled upward and outward, it concealed her face completely—save for pale lips without a trace of a smile. From beneath the helm flowed strands of crimson hair, streaming like flames in the wind.

She looked like a war goddess born of a nightmare.

The fortress had been saved by her alone. This stronghold—home to thousands and the western bulwark of Belmore—still stood because of her. She had led the frontlines herself, holding back Arkham's relentless advance for an entire day.

And yet, none of them looked upon her with awe.

Only fear.

The whispers had already begun to spread, like a sickness creeping through the cracks of shattered morale.

"I saw it, she split three men in half with one swing…"

"The Arkham troops couldn't even touch her. They just… burned… for no reason…"

"I heard she killed a little girl last year… just because she didn't bow deeply enough."

"They say her face is ruined. That's why she wears the mask. Horrible… even mirrors would shatter."

"She tortures prisoners. Keeps their hands as decorations in her dungeon…"

"Our queen is strong, yes but isn't that the kind of strength only a demon should have?"

"Our queen… she isn't human."

They were all speaking of the same person.

The masked woman.

The queen who had saved them… but terrified them all the same.

They whispered her name in hushed, trembling tones:

Ashtoria Belmore.