Chapter 8- The Meeting

The horse tore through the low-branched forest like it knew what vengeance tasted like. Riven leaned low, eyes slit against the wind, every muscle wired tight. The trees clawed at him, branches cutting thin lines into his cheeks and arms, but he didn't care. The smoke ahead wasn't fresh, but it was recent. And it wasn't rebel campfire smoke.

No.

This was the kind of smoke that smelled of unburied corpses and ambition. The kind that said some bastard thought they were God.

When the forest finally broke into a shallow dip between hills, Riven saw the blood first.

Then he saw her.

Nyra was slumped against a rock, legs wide, hands red up to her elbows. The rebel beside her — a rough-looking bastard with a bad limp and a worse attitude — had a blade unsheathed, not raised, just… near.

Riven was off the horse before it stopped.

The rebel reached for his weapon, but Riven was already in front of him.

"Touch her and I'll carve your fucking ribs into a flute."

The rebel blinked. "She yours?"

Riven didn't answer. He just looked at Nyra.

She looked up at him.

And then she broke.

Not into tears. No. She was too far gone for that. But her shoulders cracked like old timber, her hands trembled, and for the first time in days, she let someone else stand while she fell.

Riven didn't kneel. Didn't comfort. He just stood there, shadow over her, breathing hard.

"He died protecting me," she said, voice so low it might've been wind.

"Kerron was a stubborn fool," Riven muttered.

"He was better than us."

Riven looked away.

"Maybe," he said.

Stray — that was the rebel's name, apparently — cleared his throat. "We got a camp. Not far. She needs rest. You both do."

Riven nodded, but his eyes stayed locked on the horizon.

"They weren't Empire regulars," he said.

"No," Stray agreed. "They were something else."

"Who gives orders to ghosts?"

Nobody answered.

The camp was buried inside a dead riverbed, covered by canvas and silence. No banners. No names. Just firelight and paranoia.

Whispers started the second Nyra arrived. Some recognized her. Most didn't. It didn't matter.

"She was with the general."

"She walked away."

"She led 'em there."

Stray shut them up with one look. But the damage was done. Cowards and gossiping pricks always talked, didn't matter how many lives they'd watched burn.

Nyra sat alone at the edge of the camp, blanket tight around her shoulders. Riven stood nearby, watching the rebels argue in the shadow of a broken tree.

A meeting was called. Quiet, intense.

A woman with half her face burned spoke first.

"The girl's a risk."

A boy barely seventeen, with eyes too old for his face:

"She's a survivor."

One-Eye said nothing. Just smoked and watched like he was already bored of this shit.

Then someone brought up Riven.

"The Burned Prince rides," they said. "He kills like history owes him."

"Maybe it does," the boy answered.

They debated. They spun the wheel of fate like it wouldn't break in their hands. Dumb fucks didn't realize fate only spits in your face when you stare too long.

Riven, outside, didn't care. He wasn't staying.

He was burying Kerron.

The hill wasn't special. Just tall enough to catch the wind.

Riven built the pyre with bare hands. Logs. Oil. The broken axe, snapped in two.

Kerron's body was heavier than it should've been. Death always added weight. Or maybe it was guilt.

Riven laid him down.

"You walked so I wouldn't have to crawl," he muttered. "Now I walk."

He lit the fire. No prayers. Just flame.

Then turned east. Like a fucking storm with legs.

In the dark belly of a stone chamber, deep inside the Empire's capital, a voice spoke.

"The boy lives."

A figure in shadow replied, "Then bury him."

"He's headed east."

"Then we'll make the east burn too."