The night was still, with only the faint hum of the wind against the mountain peak. Riven hung high in the air, levitating silently, his breathing even, his expression distant. Beneath him, the world felt quiet, insignificant. He closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the emptiness he felt. A whisper of the chilling thoughts that now crowded his mind stirred: his recent battles, the growing power he wielded, and, most deeply, the thoughts of revenge that simmered within him.
A shift in the atmosphere caught his attention. His eyes snapped open, and his gaze sharpened. There was a faint stirring below—so subtle it almost escaped notice, but Riven's senses had become honed to every flicker in the darkness.
He knew immediately.
The presence he'd been waiting for, the one he knew he'd encounter again, had returned. It was him—the man who had killed Geryl. Riven's heart pounded, but his expression remained ice-cold, as if the chill of the night had hardened his features. He watched as the figure emerged from the shadows, cloaked in darkness.
The man's form became clearer, stepping into a patch of moonlight, his face just as Riven remembered: cruel eyes that held no remorse and a slight, mocking smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Riven's grip tightened at his sides. He could feel a powerful energy surging within him—a mix of anger, grief, and something darker. He wouldn't show it, though. Instead, he waited, letting the silence stretch, his piercing gaze never wavering.
"So," the man spoke, his voice calm and unbothered. "We meet again."
Riven's only response was a cold stare. There was nothing to be said; he had already committed himself to the fight.
The man's eyes flickered with amusement. "You look different, boy. Stronger. But strength alone… it won't save you."
Riven's jaw clenched, his voice low and cutting. "I'll make sure you feel every ounce of that strength."
With no further warning, the man lunged forward, moving with a speed that would have taken down any ordinary opponent in an instant. But Riven's reflexes had sharpened; he evaded the attack with ease, twisting in mid-air as he released a burst of telekinetic force that sent the man stumbling back.
But he didn't stay visible for long. Within a heartbeat, he vanished, the air shifting with his sudden disappearance. Riven's eyes narrowed. He knew this trick.
He reached out with his senses, searching for the faintest flicker of movement. He could feel the man circling him, waiting for an opening, waiting to strike. Riven remained calm, hovering in the air, his body still and his focus intense. Suddenly, he felt it—a subtle brush of energy to his left. He whipped around, barely managing to block as the man reappeared, slashing at him with a wickedly sharp blade. The edge grazed Riven's cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.
Riven's expression didn't falter. He countered, swinging his arm out and releasing another telekinetic pulse that struck the man in the chest, forcing him backward. But the man only grinned, vanishing again into the night.
This was going to be a drawn-out battle, Riven realized. He would have to outlast him, endure every blow, and strike with precision. His fingers tightened, and he let out a deep breath. The man was unpredictable, but Riven's determination was unwavering.
The two clashed in a violent dance, attacks and counters weaving through the night air. The man would appear, strike, and disappear again, leaving trails of shallow cuts along Riven's arms and face. But Riven did not falter. Every attack only fueled his rage, made him stronger, and his counterattacks grew more brutal, more precise.
The man reappeared behind Riven, slashing down, but Riven twisted his body, blocking the blow with his forearm. Blood spattered across the ground, but Riven didn't flinch. He drove his knee into the man's stomach, throwing him backward. The man hit the ground hard, but in an instant, he was gone again, blending into the shadows as if he'd never been there.
Riven steadied his breathing, feeling the sting of his injuries, but he forced himself to focus. This was a fight to the death, and he would not stop until his enemy lay broken at his feet.
For a moment, the air was still, silent save for the distant howl of the wind. Riven's eyes darted around, watching, waiting.
And then—there. The man struck again, faster this time, but Riven was ready. He caught the man's wrist mid-swing, twisting it with a sickening crack. The man cried out in pain, his face contorting with fury, but Riven didn't release him. Instead, he tightened his grip, his cold gaze boring into his enemy's eyes.
"This… is for Geryl."
With a sudden surge of strength, Riven slammed his enemy into the ground, his telekinetic power pressing down with relentless force. The man struggled, gasping for breath, his face twisted with pain, but Riven didn't let up. He could feel the darkness within him growing, feeding on the desire for revenge.
"Feel it," Riven hissed, his voice low and menacing. "Feel every ounce of pain you caused."
The man's struggles weakened, his body crushed beneath Riven's telekinetic grip. But even as he lay broken, he managed a final, mocking smile.
"You… will never escape this darkness, boy," he rasped, his voice filled with bitter satisfaction. "It will consume you… just as it did me."
Riven's expression hardened. He tightened his grip one final time, a surge of power surging through him, and with a sickening snap, the life faded from his enemy's eyes.
For a moment, there was silence. Riven stood there, breathing heavily, his hands stained with blood. The darkness within him felt stronger than ever, its tendrils wrapping around his mind, whispering promises of power, of vengeance. He could feel it pulling him deeper, urging him to embrace it fully.
But then he looked up, catching sight of the faint light of the moon shining down. Its soft glow seemed to pierce through the darkness, a reminder of something he had nearly forgotten.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, releasing the tension in his muscles. Slowly, he stepped away from his fallen enemy, turning his back to the lifeless form. He knew this would not be the last battle he would fight. The darkness was still there, lurking, waiting. But for now, he had won.
After what felt like an eternity, Riven allowed himself to take a few steps back from his fallen enemy. The night was still and silent, as if the very world was absorbing the weight of what had just occurred. His breathing was shallow, his heart pounding in his chest, and his mind was a whirl of thoughts. Blood spattered his arms and chest, evidence of the struggle, of the darkness that had momentarily overtaken him.
The faint sound of footsteps on gravel broke the silence. Riven's head snapped up, eyes sharp, his body instinctively tensing. But he relaxed as soon as he recognized the familiar figure approaching from the shadows, carrying a small haul of game over one shoulder. Maurs looked up, his gaze narrowing as he took in the scene before him.
Maurs's brows knitted, and he dropped the game on the ground, moving forward with deliberate, calm strides. His eyes flicked from the blood on Riven's body to the lifeless figure crumpled a few paces away, piecing together the story without a word spoken.
"Seems I missed quite the event," Maurs said quietly, his voice carrying a weight of both concern and restrained curiosity.
Riven exhaled, glancing down at his blood-streaked hands. "He… came after me. I didn't think—" He paused, trying to keep his voice steady. "I didn't think it would end this way."
Maurs nodded, his gaze steady and probing. "This man was the one who killed her?" He didn't need to specify; Riven knew exactly who he meant.
"Yes." Riven's voice was hard, though a tremor of emotion slipped through.
Maurs observed Riven for a moment, then he nodded solemnly. "And so, you've answered him. Though from the look of it…" He glanced again at the dark stains on Riven's arms, the torn edges of his clothing. "It wasn't an easy answer."
Riven met Maurs's eyes, the weight of the fight still heavy in his gaze. "It wasn't," he admitted, barely above a whisper. "But something else happened. Something… darker."
Maurs inclined his head slightly, listening.
Riven swallowed, struggling to put his thoughts into words. "I felt this urge… like I was no longer just fighting him. I wanted to destroy him, to make him suffer. And as I fought, it was as if something in me welcomed that darkness." He looked down, unable to meet Maurs's gaze. "It felt… almost right."
A silence settled between them, and for a moment, Maurs merely watched Riven, an understanding glint in his eyes. Then he stepped closer, placing a hand on Riven's shoulder with a gentleness that was rare for the usually composed man.
"Riven, battles change us," he said softly. "Sometimes, they bring out parts of ourselves we didn't know existed. Darkness is a part of all of us, especially those who have suffered." He paused, his voice lowering. "But choosing to acknowledge it doesn't mean it will control you. You're still here, still fighting it. That is what matters."
Riven looked up, meeting Maurs's steady gaze. The man's words sank into him, a reassurance he hadn't realized he needed.
"Thank you, Maurs," he murmured. "It's… not easy to see that."
Maurs nodded, his face softened by a hint of understanding. "It rarely is. But we press on."
He stepped back, giving Riven a moment to collect himself. "We'll stay here tonight. Rest, gather your strength. Tomorrow, we'll move on."
Riven nodded, and together, they set about preparing for the night. As he settled by the fire later, exhaustion tugging at him, Riven gazed at the embers, his mind still haunted by the battle. Maurs's presence nearby was a quiet reminder that he wasn't alone in this, that he had someone who understood.
As he closed his eyes, he knew that tomorrow would bring more challenges, more battles, and possibly more darkness. But tonight, he was ready to let that weight rest, if only for a few hours.
In the village of Eldralon, the evening air was thick with the smell of rain-soaked earth, and the quiet murmurs of villagers echoed off the worn cobblestone paths. Lanterns flickered against the darkness as people began to settle in for the night, huddled in small clusters, trading stories and rumors. But this evening, something would shatter that quiet like a bolt of lightning.
Two men, exhausted and mud-streaked, burst through the village gates, their faces twisted in a mix of shock and terror. They stumbled, barely able to catch their breath, before one of them managed to call out, his voice hoarse but urgent.
"His body—it's gone!" he yelled, wide eyes darting over the gathered crowd.
Heads turned, whispers began to ripple through the villagers as the second man, visibly shaken, gripped his companion's arm tightly. "We searched everywhere, every ledge, every outcropping. There was no sign of him. Riven… he's alive."
A silence settled over the crowd, thick and heavy, as the realization sank in. Riven Kaelthar, the boy they had all assumed dead, was not lying at the bottom of the cliffs. He had survived the fall. A surge of fear and disbelief spread through the villagers; they had been certain, utterly convinced, that no one could survive that descent. And yet, he had.
A woman clutched her chest, her eyes wide. "It can't be… After what he did—after… Gareth." She trailed off, shuddering as if the very name brought back the memory of the bloody scene.
Another villager, an older man with deep lines etched into his face, stepped forward, his voice filled with wary respect mixed with dread. "If Riven lives… then perhaps the rumors are true. Perhaps he's not the same boy he once was."
Others nodded, casting nervous glances at the cliff and the direction from which the two men had returned. Whispers grew into hushed conversations, and fear began to tinge the air. For some, the idea of Riven surviving was a miracle; for others, it was a warning.
"Do you think he'll come back here?" a young man muttered, looking around at the others.
"After what happened?" came the murmured response. "If he's truly alive… I doubt he'll ever set foot in Eldralon again."
But despite the hushed reassurances, a palpable fear lingered. Riven's memory loomed over the village like a shadow, and the reality of his survival changed everything.
Amid the murmurs of fear and disbelief, a figure pushed forward through the crowd—a tall, broad-shouldered man whose presence commanded silence. Arlen Kaelthar, Riven's own father, stood with his chin raised and his jaw set hard. His gaze was sharp, filled with a fierce resolve that burned behind his eyes, a look that unsettled even the men who stood beside him.
"He's not dead," Arlen said, his voice cutting through the whispers like a blade. "And if he's alive, then he's a danger—to all of us."
Some of the villagers looked away, avoiding his piercing glare, but others began to nod in agreement. They remembered Riven's unusual intensity, the strange detachment that seemed to mark him even before the recent tragedy. And now, to hear that he had survived something no ordinary person could… it didn't sit well with any of them.
"He's changed," another man said quietly. "Who knows what he's become."
Arlen took a step forward, looking out over the crowd. "I won't sit here and let him wander free, lurking in the shadows, waiting to bring more trouble down on this village," he continued, each word filled with a mixture of contempt and determination. "We'll put an end to this, for good."
One by one, men began to step forward, drawn by Arlen's resolve and the urgent need to protect their homes and families. Each had his own reason for volunteering—a grudge against the boy, fear of what he might bring upon them, or simply the instinct to follow their leader. They formed a small, hardened group, weathered faces and calloused hands, a band of men who understood that sometimes, harsh measures were necessary.
"I'll go," said one, a blacksmith whose scars bore witness to his own history of battles. Another, a farmer with a steely look in his eye, nodded his assent.
One by one, they gathered around Arlen, until a dozen men stood ready. They bore grim expressions, eyes narrowed in determination, ready to hunt down the boy who had escaped his fate. Arlen glanced at each of them, his voice low and steady.
"We track him down," he said, his voice void of warmth. "And we make sure he can't come back." His words left no room for doubt—this was not a search for answers or reconciliation. It was a hunt, and he intended to see it through to the end.
A murmur of assent rippled through the group, and with each step forward, their resolve hardened. Riven had left them no choice. They would go into the wild, comb through the forest, and root out any sign of him. They didn't know what he had become, but they would meet it head-on, blades drawn, and end whatever threat he posed to Eldralon.
Under the moonlight, Riven sat by the campfire, his obsidian staff resting beside him. Maurs sat across from him, quiet and watchful, as if reading Riven's thoughts as they flickered like the flames. In the silence, Riven's mind drifted to the past weeks—the encounters, the bloodshed, and the trail he had carved into the unknown.
Four. Four lives taken by his hands.
The number weighed on him, not with remorse, but with an odd sense of detachment. Each kill had been different, each a necessary step, like pieces in a puzzle he was meant to solve alone. Geryl's lifeless eyes, Gareth's struggling form, the other nameless men—faces blurred, details lost in the haze of blood and shadows. The kill count felt like a tally of fate's cruel tally, each life lost a price paid to something darker in himself, something he was only beginning to understand.
Maurs cleared his throat, his voice low. "You've come far, Riven," he said. "But each step forward brings new burdens, new dangers. Every kill leaves its mark on more than just your memory."
Riven looked up, eyes colder than before, as if a wall had settled around them, blocking the softness they might have once held. He shrugged, his expression unchanging. "I did what I had to. They… stood in my way."
"Do you ever think of their faces?" Maurs asked, watching him closely.
Riven was silent for a moment, but then shook his head slowly. "No. They're gone. Just shadows, fading away."
Maurs studied him, a hint of something unreadable in his gaze. He nodded, though his eyes held a glint of concern. "Just remember, Riven. Shadows have a way of coming back when you least expect it."
Riven's jaw tightened, his grip around the obsidian staff firming. He wasn't sure what Maurs saw in him—whether it was worry, pride, or something else entirely. But he was certain of one thing: he was prepared to add to that kill count, prepared to do whatever it took. Those who crossed his path, those who sought to destroy him, they would face the same fate. And as the moonlight glinted off his cold, calculating gaze, a quiet resolve set in his heart.
He looked away from the fire, gazing into the darkness that surrounded them, feeling its familiar embrace. He was no longer afraid of it. He was part of it, a shadow in the night, one step further from the boy he had once been.
Turning back to Maurs, Riven said simply, "Tomorrow, we keep moving."
Maurs nodded in agreement, though his eyes lingered on Riven's face, the change he saw there unmistakable.