The sky above Velmora had turned a dull silver-gray.
Ash drifted gently across the ruins like snow, soft and silent. The fire that had burst from Riven minutes ago was gone, but the memory of its warmth lingered on his skin like a scar.
He stood at the mouth of the hidden chamber, staring down at the book in his hands.
It was old — impossibly so. Bound in worn black leather, sealed by what remained of a chain that looked melted, like it had once been wrapped in flame. Its cover bore no title, no emblem — just a small imprint at the center.
A symbol.
A crown, split down the middle by a jagged line.
> "You recognize it?" Veyron asked, tone more serious than usual.
"No," Riven said quietly. "But I feel like I should."
> "That symbol belonged to your father."
Riven's fingers tightened around the book. "You said you didn't remember everything."
> "I don't. But some things… stick." A pause. "That emblem was once carved into the gates of Velmora's Grand Archive. Only the royal bloodline could pass through them."
Riven ran his fingers over the imprint.
There was a pull in his chest. Like the book wanted him to open it. Like it needed to be read.
But when he tried to lift the cover—
A shock ran through his arm.
He dropped the book with a grunt, stumbling back.
A faint glowing chain had flashed across the cover and vanished.
> "It's sealed," Veyron murmured. "With memory locks. You can't open it until you've awakened the parts of yourself that were buried."
"Memory locks?"
> "Your father did this, Riven. Or your mother. Someone sealed your past away to protect you. Until you're strong enough to handle it."
Riven bent down again, slower this time. The book didn't burn him again, but he could feel the weight of it now. Not physical — something deeper.
He placed it in the satchel beneath his cloak and stood.
Behind him, the unconscious cultists still lay bound. Their magic had faded. The mist that once cloaked them was gone. The leader — the one with the sun-split mask — stirred slightly but didn't wake.
They would have to wait.
He had bigger questions now.
And maybe… one step closer to the truth.
---
An hour later, Riven sat beneath the hollow remains of a marble archway, blade resting against the stones beside him. A fire crackled before him — small and controlled, feeding on the dried ash-wood he'd found among the ruins.
The sun had begun to set.
Riven stared into the flames, eyes unfocused.
In his mind, he saw his father's face again.
Even if only for a second, the image had been real. Broad shoulders. Fiery eyes. Armor etched with the same crown symbol.
He had called him "prince." Told him to run. To survive.
And now… now the pieces were starting to surface.
"I need to remember," Riven muttered.
> "You will," Veyron replied. "But the more you uncover, the more danger will follow. Are you ready for that?"
"I already died once," he said quietly. "What else is there to fear?"
> "You didn't die. You survived. That's the problem." Veyron's voice lowered. "You don't know what your survival cost the world."
Riven didn't answer. He watched the fire for a while longer.
Then a sound behind him made him tense.
Footsteps. Slow. Cautious.
He was on his feet in seconds, sword in hand. The fire cast shadows across the courtyard, and from them stepped a figure — one of the cultists, limping, unarmed, hands raised.
Not the leader. A younger one. No mask.
"Please," the man said hoarsely. "I didn't know… I didn't know it was you."
Riven didn't lower his sword.
"You followed me. You drew weapons. You tried to kill me."
"I was told the last Valenhart was dead. That we were just hunting a… rogue mage."
"Liar," Riven said. "You called me 'prince.'"
The cultist flinched. "Because… that's what the Order calls you. 'The Ashborn Prince.' They say you were touched by forbidden mana. That your soul was cursed. That—"
"Speak the next lie and I will cut your tongue," Riven snapped.
The man dropped to his knees.
"I—I was never meant to be part of this. They took us from villages. Trained us. Conditioned us. I never even saw the real leaders. Only fragments. Orders sent through fire or ink. Please…"
Riven stared at him.
A pawn. That's what he was.
One of many.
> "He could be useful," Veyron whispered. "Or he could be bait. That's the tricky part with broken things — you don't know if they'll help you or cut you when you try to pick them up."
Riven lowered his sword. Just slightly.
"What's your name?" he asked.
The man looked up in surprise. "...Kael."
"Kael," Riven repeated. "Then here's your choice, Kael. You can run. Or you can serve."
"I don't—"
"You'll carry supplies. Watch the road. Answer my questions. If you lie, I'll know. And I'll kill you."
Kael swallowed hard. "I… I understand."
Riven nodded once. "Good. Then rest while you can. We move before dawn."
---
Later that night, as the fire burned lower and the moon rose over the broken peaks, Riven sat awake — the book in his hands again, unopened.
A new piece of his past was calling.
He would find it.
Piece by piece.
Even if the world burned to reveal the truth.
---