The path twisted through dead trees and thicker air. Somewhere behind them, the ruins of the outpost still stank of burnt flesh. Riven didn't look back.
Nyra followed him in silence.
Not even once had she asked where they were going. She just kept walking, even when the wind picked up and the hills cut sharper. She was limping, clearly in pain, but didn't fucking complain once.
He respected that. Not that he said so.
"You know you're fuckin slowing me down," Riven muttered without turning.
"Then leave me," she said.
He snorted. "Don't tempt me."
Still, he didn't walk faster.
They reached a ridge by dusk. Below, a wide road stretched across the valley — cracked stone, worn ruts, two collapsed wagons rusting in the mud.
"There used to be a toll post there," Nyra said, pointing with her chin. "Before Virel's dogs took it."
Riven spat. "No fucking use for tolls in a land that's bleeding from the throat."
He sat down against a tree. Ashwake leaned beside him like an old friend. Nyra crouched opposite, unwrapping a piece of bread.
"Where'd you get that?" he asked.
"Stole it."
"From who?"
"A corpse."
"Efficient," he said, and took a bite when she offered half.
Silence stretched between them again. This time it wasn't heavy. Just tired.
Then the noise came — low, sharp, and fast.
Hoofbeats.
Riven stood immediately. His hand went to Ashwake. Nyra followed his eyes.
A patrol. Five riders. Steel glinting on their shoulders, a black sun insignia on their cloaks.
Virel's men.
"Fuck shit," Riven muttered.
They ducked low. The riders were close, but not close enough to spot them yet. Riven watched, squinting at the one leading the charge — tall, wide shoulders, helmet scratched with tally marks.
"Bastard's done this before," he said.
"Should we run?" Nyra whispered.
"No. We draw them in."
Her eyes widened. "Are you fucking insane?"
"Maybe."
He darted down the ridge without waiting. Fast, sure steps.
Nyra cursed under her breath and followed.
Riven reached the shattered wagon first and dropped beside it. Mud soaked his boots. The patrol slowed, noticing movement.
"You two!" barked the lead rider. "Step forward and state your fucking names!"
Riven didn't answer.
"Now!" the soldier shouted, pulling his blade.
Riven stood slowly, cloak flaring.
"My name?" he said. "Write it down."
And then he moved.
Ashwake came alive — cutting the space between him and the nearest rider. The blade carved through a throat like paper, blood spraying across the wagon wheel.
"Ambush!" someone screamed.
Too late.
Nyra grabbed a broken spear from the ground and swung wild at a rider who lunged for her. She missed the first time, caught him in the ribs the second. He screamed, toppled, tried to rise — Riven kicked him in the head so hard his jaw cracked sideways.
The fight was fast. Ugly. Real.
Steel met skin. Mud met bone. The patrol didn't stand a damm fucking chance.
Three minutes later, five men bled into the dirt.
Nyra was panting. Blood on her cheek. One hand trembling.
She looked at the spear like it had betrayed her.
"You alright?" Riven asked.
She didn't answer.
"Hey. Look at me."
She did.
He nodded to the man she stabbed. "That was clean. You did good."
"I didn't want to kill anyone," she whispered.
"Yeah, well. The world doesn't give a fuck what you want."
He cleaned Ashwake on one of the corpses. The metal gleamed in the fading light.
Nyra sat back hard, wiping her mouth. "Is this how it's gonna be?"
"This is the best it'll ever be," he said.
And then, softer, almost too quiet:
"Rust doesn't bleed. But people do."
"The bastards were still warm when Riven started looting them — didn't give a shit if they were twitching or praying. Dead was dead."
"Seriously?" Nyra said, wiping her mouth, still pale from the kill.
"Dead men can't talk," Riven muttered. "But their shit does."
He flipped the leader's cloak, pulling out a folded leather satchel soaked with blood. Inside: a crumpled map, two silver rings, and a sealed black envelope marked with the insignia of Arvendale's inner court.
He stared at it longer than he meant to.
"Shit," he muttered.
"What is it?"
"Orders. High ones."
He broke the seal. Inside was a parchment, its ink still fresh.
"All border dogs report any shit moving west of Greystone. If it's that Burned Prince bastard, don't try to play hero. Stall his ass, send word to Queen Virel right away. He's top fucking threat — don't face him alone unless you want to die screaming."
Nyra leaned over his shoulder. Her face tensed. "They're looking for you."
"No shit," Riven snapped. "I killed her nephew three days ago."
Her face paled.
He stood, staring at the blood-stained hill they'd come down from.
"They know I'm alive," he said. "Which means we've got less time than I hoped."
He looked over at Nyra.
"And you? You're in this now too."
"I didn't ask to be."
"You followed me."
"I thought I was following a man with purpose. Not a death sentence."
Riven chuckled "They're the same fucking thing."
They burned the bodies before leaving. Nyra hesitated at first, but helped drag limbs. She gagged once. Didn't cry. That was something.
Night fell fast.
They made camp under a slab of broken stone near an old war memorial — a cracked sword statue half-buried in ivy and piss. Riven built the fire in silence. Nyra sat close, shoulders hunched.
She finally spoke.
"You ever kill someone and regret it?"
Riven didn't answer right away.
"Once," he said. "Didn't last long."
"Who?"
"Someone who trusted me."
Nyra rubbed her arms. "I don't think I can do this."
"You can."
"I froze earlier. When he came at me, I just— I couldn't breathe."
"You moved when it mattered."
"What if next time I don't?"
Riven looked at her. "Then you die."
She didn't flinch. Just nodded. "Fair enough."
He leaned back, staring at the stars. "You want fair, Nyra, you should've stayed swinging from that rope."
She didn't respond.
Later, when she was asleep — or pretending to be — he pulled out the blood-soaked parchment again. Read it twice. Memorized every word.
They were scared of him. That was something good.
But they weren't fucking stupid either.
If Virel was already issuing orders, it meant she wasn't sitting pretty behind her palace walls anymore. She was moving. And if she was moving, others would too. Word spreads fast across cracked kingdoms.
He scratched a name into the dirt with his knife.
High-Captain Theren.
The bastard ran Virel's midlands — handled her prison wagons and traitor camps.
He'd be next.
Flashback:
Riven remembered being dragged by Theren's men. Cold iron on his wrists. He was ten. Maybe less. His mouth bloodied from screaming. His sister already limp in their arms. The guards laughed. One of them pissed on the Alden banner before lighting it on fire.
"You're a fucking asshole ghost now, boy," one had sneered. "You'll vanish like the rest."
Riven had believed it.
For a while.
Now:
He stared into the fire, jaw clenched.
"Ghosts don't vanish," he whispered.
"They haunt."
Morning came hard.
Riven woke to find Nyra already up, staring at the sword statue. She looked different in the morning light. Paler. But not weaker.
He stood, stretched, picked up Ashwake.
"We move east. There's a cave system near Black Hollow. Smugglers used to hide there. Might be someone left who owes me a favor."
Nyra nodded. "And after that?"
"We start sending messages."
"Messages?"
"To the traitors," he said. "Written in blood."
She hesitated. "You mean to fight Virel's whole kingdom?"
Riven didn't smile.
"I mean to burn the fucker to the ground."
As they moved out, Nyra spoke again.
"You said once. Just one regret."
He raised an eyebrow.
She looked away. "I've got more than one."
Riven said nothing. Just kept walking.
But he didn't walk faster.