shortsofjai

The world believes the Alden bloodline died with the flames. But Riven Alden—prince turned exile—remembers everything. The screams. The betrayal. The night his kingdom was erased by those meant to protect it.

Now, he's no prince. No crown. Just a name whispered in the ashes.

Armed with nothing but a cursed sword and the rage of a thousand ghosts, Riven sets out to tear down the three monarchs who burned his past. 

This is not a hero’s tale. This is not redemption.
This is the story of a man who lost everything—
and what’s left when there's nothing but fire inside.

Vengeance isn’t justice. It’s survival.

When Smoke Rises

Arvendale stank of perfume and polished stone. No ash. No rot. Not even blood.

His boots struck the cobbled roads like fists to bone, echoing down a perfect little street lined with marble. The guards didn't flinch. Their helms gleamed, their blades sharper than truth. Everything in Arvendale was straight, sterile, and sickeningly clean—like it was scared of being real.

Riven walked beneath banners that hadn't seen weather. Crimson and silver. Virel's colors.

"This place doesn't breathe," he muttered, eyeing the stone gargoyles overhead. "It chokes."

The man escorting him said nothing. He wore a silver mask, eyes blank.

The noble courtyard looked like a painting that had been dipped in poison. Rose gardens, white pillars, a fountain that gurgled clean water while the east star burned soft in the dusk.

Virel of Arvendale sat beside a brazier. Cloak unwrinkled, fingers wrapped around a goblet of red wine. He looked like a man who'd never bled.

"Riven Alden," Virel said smoothly, without looking up. "The flame still walks."

"Keep calling me that and I'll put your tongue in that fire."

Virel smiled. He gestured to the opposite chair.

"You come to my court and refuse comfort?"

"You burn rebels in furnaces and call it peace."

They stood in silence for a breath. The flame in the brazier crackled between them.

"Your friend Kerron," Virel said softly, "he screamed your name when we peeled him open."

Riven didn't flinch. But his hand clenched.

"And rob yourself of what you came for?"

"Burn what I point to, and I'll tell you why your father sealed the Door. Why the Emberguard was truly disbanded. Why Bastien the Falseblade wants you dead more than I do."

Riven stared at the flames. They whispered. The smell of smoke pulled at something old.

Beneath the bones of Boneveil, Nyra crouched in the dark.

She held the journal like it was sacred. Kerron's last scrawlings. Blood-stained, burnt at the edges. It spoke of tunnels beneath Arvendale—hidden passageways used by spies before the city became a palace of glass.

"This could get us in," whispered Thay, one of the last rebels.

"No," Nyra said. "It will. We're not asking anymore."

She rose. The fire in her voice was colder than steel.

"If Riven's the wildfire, I'm the fucking scalpel."

Up above, the forgotten heir watched through narrowed eyes. Shadow-glass in hand, feet balanced on a cathedral ledge.

Training together in silence. Blades clashing. Riven laughing after every loss like pain was a friend. He wasn't like them. Never had been.

The heir reached into their cloak and pulled a small enchanted dagger. Etched with ravens. Bound with a whisper-spell.

They slid it behind a loose brick along the path Riven would take.

That night, Riven returned to the rented room—walls too white, bed too soft. He unrolled the map Virel had gifted him. It reeked of manipulation.

Points of interest. Guard shifts. Weak spots. Lies?

Virel knew more than he should. About the Door. About his father. About Emberguard.

Why the fuck would he offer anything?

Because he thinks I'll kill for him.

But he didn't let it all burn. He stamped the fire halfway, leaving one part untouched.

From behind the bedpost, something glinted.

He pulled it free. Ravens etched in the hilt.

The dagger beneath Arvendale had been unsheathed.

Chapter 15: The Dagger Beneath Arvendale