Chapter 14: No One Buries the Ashes

Riven didn't look back when he left the monastery. The air behind him still hissed, like it wanted to suck him back in — into the lies, into the rot, into whatever memory traps the Chanter had laced through the stones. But he was done choking on ghosts.

His horse was exactly where he left it. Too smart to step into a cursed ruin. He mounted, skin still itching with ash, eyes stinging. His whole body felt cracked open. Not bleeding, just raw. Like whatever lived inside him had crawled too close to the surface and didn't know how to get back down.

The ride was long. Didn't feel like it.

The trees blurred. Wind slapped his face. At some point it started raining, but not enough to wash anything away. Just enough to smear the blood on his gloves into a sick kind of paint.

The closer he got to Boneveil, the quieter everything became. No birds. No wind. Just that weight in the air, like the world was holding its breath.

And then he saw it.

Smoke first. Then the black marks. Then the silence that had teeth.

Boneveil wasn't a town anymore.

It was bones and fucking ash.

The gates were cracked open like someone had ripped the whole place in half. The streets were smeared with red, thick and dark. Some of it fresh. Some of it drying. All of it still speaking.

He rode through without blinking.

Didn't call out.

Didn't ask who was alive.

Didn't wonder if they were waiting for him.

Because a part of him already knew.

This wasn't a place anymore. It was a message.

Riven stood in the middle of the rubble, unmoving.

Children cried behind him. A boy no older than ten clutched his dead sister's hand like it would wake her. An old woman tried to cover a mangled corpse with scraps of cloth. Nothing helped.

A rebel healer walked past, muttering too loudly.

"Ghostfire," he said, half in awe, half in fear. "He doesn't save. He survives."

Riven didn't flinch. Blood dried on his face, cracking near his eyes. His hands shook, but not from exhaustion. Just emptiness.

He turned and walked out. No words. Just silence and a trail of ash behind him.

Nyra arrived hours later.

She expected wounds. She expected pain. She didn't expect this.

Boneveil wasn't just attacked. It was unmade. Streets painted with blood, homes gutted into coffins. She found a child's boot nailed to a door. The child wasn't there. Just the nail.

A rebel whispered to her, trying to explain.

"The Empire sent fire-walkers. Beast riders. We held them off… until Riven showed up. Then they stopped. Because they were dead. But so were we."

Nyra didn't speak. She walked deeper into the ruins. Her boot struck something small. She looked down.

Kerron's pendant.

The stone was cracked. The chain broken.

Nyra dropped to her knees, held it like it breathed. Then screamed.

She hit the wall. Again. Again. Until her palms bled. Until someone grabbed her.

"Enough."

It was Stray.

His voice was low, eyes dull.

"I'm leaving. Joining Commander Wehl's cell. Riven's gone. I mean really gone."

Nyra wiped blood from her cheek, staring.

"You're running."

"No," he said. "I'm surviving. You should try it. He's fire with no shape. You can't hold that."

She didn't reply.

Later, in the dark of the cellar, she whispered to herself.

"I believed in him once. Then I loved him. Now I don't even know if he knows what he's doing. Or if he ever did."

Riven rode north, alone.

His horse was tired. He didn't care.

Blood loss made the world tilt sideways. His shoulder hadn't clotted right. Bandages soaked through. Wind whistled like it mocked him.

Then it stopped.

The world blinked out.

He was on the ground, eyes to the sky.

Then—

The Academy.

He was a boy again. Books in his lap. Then a soldier, dragging a corpse. Then Kerron, laughing. Then his father, with blood on his boots.

Then all of them at once.

Smoke curled around them.

A voice whispered, close to his ear.

"Fire forgets who it burned first."

He woke with a gasp.

The horse stood nearby, nudging his ribs. Riven coughed. Spat blood. Pulled himself up.

The voice lingered in his mind.

He didn't scream. He just breathed.

And the rage inside him went quiet.

Far south, in the capital:

The Chanter of Blame stepped into the pulpit of a ruined cathedral.

The walls still bore scorch marks from last winter's purge. But the benches were full.

Farmers. Traders. Former guards. All listening.

The Chanter was pale. His lips black with ritual ink. His voice soft but sharp.

"Riven Alden. The Burned Prince. The firewalker. The ghost-son."

Gasps. Murmurs.

"He kills them. Friends. Children. Allies. The fire doesn't choose. It only eats."

He stepped forward.

"He is not your hero. He is your ending."

Silence.

Then he smiled.

"Lies are cheaper than swords. And sharper, if you speak slow."

From a shadowed corner of the cathedral, a man watched the sermon—face cloaked, voice low.

"The Empire moves fast," he murmured. "But fear moves faster."

The man turned and slipped out. The insignia on his cloak was stitched in red.

A dagger crossing a crown.

The symbol of a forgotten heir.

Back in Boneveil, the world grew smaller.

Only a few rebels remained. Stray was gone. So were dozens.

Nyra sat by the fire, dead-eyed.

Riven returned without a word. He didn't need one.

She tossed him a sealed scroll. Waxed in crimson.

He opened it.

Virel of Arvendale.

The message inside was short. Precise.

"The game has changed, Burned Prince. Come to Arvendale. Or watch more children burn."

Riven read it twice.

Then stood.

His voice was cold.

"Then the fire walks north."