Chapter Eleven: After the Fire
Victory always tastes like ash when it's born from blood.
The ruins still smoked as the army set up camp outside what was left of Blackvale.
Silence sat heavy over them all. They had won—but it didn't feel like triumph.
Kael stood at the edge of the broken temple, boots ash-stained, eyes locked on the horizon. His sword was back in its sheath. For once, it felt heavier than his armor.
Behind him, Riven sat on the steps, fingers curling loosely around the obsidian shard.
He hadn't told Kael it still whispered.
He couldn't.
Not yet.
The healers had tried to treat him—he waved them off. It wasn't his body that hurt.
Kael knelt beside him, silent for a moment before speaking.
"You're too quiet."
"I'm listening," Riven said.
"To what?"
He held up the shard. "To the fire."
Kael tensed. "Is she still in there?"
"No." A pause. "Not exactly."
"Then what?"
Riven looked up at him, eyes rimmed red, face pale.
"She left something behind. A… mark. I can feel it. Every time I breathe."
Kael reached for the shard—but Riven's hand clamped over his.
"Don't. It's mine to carry."
Kael's voice was low. "You don't have to carry it alone."
"I know." Riven exhaled. "But I'm not ready to let it go."
That night, the campfire was quiet. Soldiers drank without cheer. Mages whispered prayers. A funeral was held for those who had fallen during the raid—including two of Kael's oldest scouts.
Riven didn't go.
Kael found him on the outskirts of the camp, staring up at the stars.
"I hated the stars when I was a child," Riven said softly. "Thought they were liars."
"Why?"
"Because they looked peaceful. Distant. Untouched by war, by pain. Like they didn't care what we suffered below."
Kael sat beside him.
"They don't."
Riven huffed a breath. "That's what makes them cruel."
Silence stretched.
Then Kael murmured, "Maybe they're not cruel. Just constant. They shine no matter who dies. Maybe that's… hope. In their own way."
"You sound like a poet."
Kael gave him a side glance. "I wanted to be one. Before the sword."
Riven blinked. "Seriously?"
"Dead serious."
"Kael the Warrior Poet. I like it." Riven's lips tilted. "Say something poetic, then."
Kael hesitated.
Then, quietly:
"I'll let the world burn for you,
if it means you'll stand in the ashes with me."
Riven stared.
Then, barely a whisper: "That's not fair."
"Why?"
"Because I'd burn it all to keep you from ever needing to."
Later, in Kael's tent, Riven stripped off his shirt and sat on the edge of the cot. Scars ran down his back—some fresh, others old and white.
Kael approached slowly, hands gentle as he brushed his fingers across Riven's spine.
"Does it hurt?" he asked.
"Not the skin," Riven murmured.
Kael sat behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling him in.
"I'm not going anywhere," Kael said.
Riven leaned into him.
"Promise?"
Kael kissed his shoulder. "Even if the fire takes us both."
But outside, something stirred.
Beneath the earth, the obsidian shard pulsed with a heartbeat not their own.
And in the distance, across the sea of flame-ravaged land, the Queen watched through eyes not her own.
Smiling.
Waiting.