Chapter 12: Salt in the Fire

The wind in the east was dry, but not clean. Ash still rode it like ghosts too stubborn to leave. The three of them had taken shelter in a gutted chapel that once held prayer and peace—now, it reeked of piss, soot, and betrayal.

Riven sat on a rotting pew with his sword across his knees. He didn't sleep. Not well, not truly. Not since the last betrayal had cracked his ribs and left Kerron smeared across the fields. He'd washed the blood from his hands. Didn't matter. It was still under his fucking fingernails.

Stray paced like a caged dog. Nyra leaned against the back wall, eyes closed, but he could tell she wasn't resting either. None of them were. The war was changing them faster than wounds could heal.

"Where'd you get it?" Riven's voice cut through the chapel like a blade.

Nyra opened one eye. "What?"

He pointed at the pendant around her neck. The one that used to hang from Kerron's throat. The rusted, iron-wrought thing that symbolized the First Rebellion. His hand curled into a fist.

"That wasn't on him when I buried him. So I ask again: where the fuck did you get it?"

Nyra didn't flinch. But she didn't answer either.

Stray stopped pacing. The tension snapped taut.

"You think I took it before he died?" she asked, voice ice over fire. "That I looted our commander while he bled out?"

Riven's stare didn't waver. "I think you were the last to speak to him. I think his corpse was lighter than it should've been. And I think you're carrying a lot more than guilt."

Silence again. Heavy. Ugly.

Then, footsteps.

All three had blades in hand before the door creaked. A figure stepped in, hooded, dusty. He didn't draw a weapon. Didn't need to. He spoke the Old Rebel Code:

"The fire sleeps under ash. Stir it wrong, and you burn."

Stray lowered his dagger a fraction. Riven didn't.

"Who the fuck are you?" Riven snarled.

"A runner from the Ashroots," the man said. "They sent word. The North garrison fell without a single swing. No soldiers. Just smoke."

He handed over a burned flag—Imperial crest torn, Albrecht's seal half-melted. On the back, written in blood:

He remembers you.

Riven stared. Eyes went glassy, but not weak. Just distant. Dangerous.

A memory clawed back. Albrecht's voice, from another life:

"Some flames, boy, are too useful to snuff out. Let them live. Let them hate. They do more damage that way."

Riven's jaw clenched so hard it cracked.

He tossed the flag aside. "You tell your Ashroot masters we move at dusk. And if they're lying... I'll gut their tongues out and feed them to the crows myself."

That night, Nyra stood alone in the chapel. The moonlight exposed carvings in the stone—strange, jagged runes.

She traced one with her fingertip. Her breath caught. These were Kerron's symbols. Ones only she and he had used. Secret codes. Warning signs.

She staggered back, hands shaking.

"You're seeing ghosts now," Stray said from the doorway.

She turned, blade drawn before she even thought.

"Easy," he said. "I just want the truth."

"There is no truth anymore," she spat. "Just survival."

"Bullshit. Kerron trusted you. I did too. Now look at you. Paranoid. Carving into walls like a mad bitch. You're breaking."

She lunged. Blade kissed his throat. Just a breath away from slicing.

He didn't flinch. "Do it. At least then I'll know whose side you're on."

She didn't. She dropped the blade and stormed out, teeth gritted, tears stinging behind her fury.

Far away, in a dusty square of village no map cared about, a man with silver eyes and a serpent's voice preached to a growing crowd.

The Chanter.

He smiled as he spoke.

"The Burned Prince, they call him now. Riven Alden. Once heir. Now butcher."

The crowd murmured. Some gasped.

"He leaves fire where there were homes. Smoke where there were songs. Is that a hero? Or just a flame hungry for more fuel?"

Someone spat. Someone else wept.

The Chanter bowed.

"Not all fire burns the enemy. Some fire remembers betrayal... and comes home to burn the rest."

And just like that, belief shifted. Truth bent.

The war wasn't just about swords anymore. It was about stories.

And Riven was becoming one he couldn't control.