The sun had barely crested the horizon when the training grounds stirred to life.
Set in the northern quarter beyond the palace walls, the open arena sprawled beneath the shadow of obsidian towers. The ground was packed dark earth, etched with old runes that pulsed faintly as combat spells discharged and echoed off the walls.
Riven stood at the edge of the training field, his arms folded as he watched two Shadow Knights spar in silence—blades gleaming, footwork precise, neither giving ground. Around them, more knights moved through drills under the supervision of instructors, both living and undead.
But it wasn't the knights that held his focus.
Beyond the ring, twenty figures stood in perfect formation.
His undead.
The ones he had personally raised.
They were not like the others—there was no mistaking that. Though their bodies bore the marks of death—bone showing through worn armor, runes carved into exposed ribs and skulls—they moved with fluid grace. Shadows clung to their forms like cloaks, and their eyes glowed faintly with residual soulfire.
These were not mindless corpses. They were remnants of the old kingdom—commanders, historians, spellmasters, artisans. Riven had not simply raised soldiers. He had brought back the legacy of the Shadow Kingdom itself.
"Varric," Riven called.
One of the undead stepped forward. Taller than the others, clad in fractured silver plate, Varric bowed with chanical precision. "My king."
"How are the new recruits progressing?"
Varric tilted his head, his jaw moving with quiet deliberation. "They are green. Fearful. But not useless. The talent is there—if honed properly."
Another voice chid in—rough and amused. "They'll need to be bloodied. You don't learn in silence. You learn when you're one misstep from being torn apart."
A shorter figure stepped into view. Her robes were stained with ink, not blood, and bone-chains clinked softly at her waist. Her na had once been Lyssara, a necromancer-scholar who had penned the first codices on soulforging before Solis had burned her alive.
Riven gave a faint nod. "And the others?"
"They've taken well to teaching," Varric said. "Your command was clear—they do not simply train warriors. They pass on what was lost."
"So of the living even listen," Lyssara said, dry. "That's more than we could say before."
Riven allowed himself a faint nod of approval. "Good. They'll need it. We're not just building a defense—we're laying the foundation for sothing that will endure and evolve."
One of the others stepped forward then—broad-shouldered and held in jagged blacksteel. His na had once been Durn, a war-forger who had crafted the kingdom's siege constructs by hand. Now, even in undeath, he still carried a hamr at his belt.
"We've finished reforging the northern barricade," Durn rumbled, voice like a shifting mountain. "We've added blood wards to the frawork. If sothing cos through without permission… it'll burn."
"Perfect," Riven said. "You've done well."
The undead did not smile. But the way they shifted—the way their stances eased slightly—spoke volus. They did not crave praise, but they understood its weight.
He moved among them now, speaking to each in turn. A brief nod from Aneth, the illusionist who now taught stealth magic to young recruits. A quiet update from Talien, once the kingdom's quartermaster, now managing supply lines without sleep or complaint. Each had their purpose.
Each had chosen to rise again for this.
When Riven finally stepped back, his gaze sweeping the field, he found all twenty undead warriors watching him with burning eyes.
"Soon," he said quietly. "The world will look to this place not with fear—but wonder and maybe even fear. They will see a kingdom that cannot be erased."
A low murmur of agreent swept through the group. Not words. But resonance. A soul-deep vow.
Riven turned away then, walking from the training field as the undead returned to their duties without command. They knew what was expected of them.
And they hadn't failed him yet.
—x—
Riven's cloak stirred in the wind as he descended the stone stairs leading away from the training grounds. His expression was unreadable, but the silence that followed him was not empty—it was watchful.
Behind him, Ember followed.
Her boots made no sound on the blackstone path, and her steps were asured, almost too controlled for soone who was so young. Her eyes, however, glowed faintly with undead fire—an ember nestled in an endless dark. She had been quiet, as always, lingering like a second shadow behind Riven since his return.
She hadn't spoken once.
Not until now.
"You know, it's rude to walk off and leave your sister trailing behind like so lost ghost."
Riven didn't stop walking, but one brow arched. "You weren't exactly trying to be noticed."
Ember huffed and caught up in two long strides, her crimson gaze flicking sideways to glare at him. "Maybe I was giving you ti. You were doing your whole broody king routine."
"Was I?" he murmured.
"Yes. All the silence. All the shadow-glowering. Very dramatic. You should teach a class."
Riven glanced at her, amused despite himself. "Maybe I will. You can be my first student."
"Hard pass," she shot back, but her lips twitched.
They crossed into the upper courtyard where the blackstone towers rose higher, catching the late morning light in jagged silhouettes. The generals were already gathered near the edge, overlooking the expansion to the south. Krux was fidgeting with his gauntlets, Aria stood rigid as a statue, Mal reviewed a floating blueprint projection, and Damon was, predictably, snacking on dried fruit with zero sha.
They all turned as Riven approached, instinctively falling into that quiet alertness only warriors knew—sharp eyes, asured breath, tension just beneath the surface.
But their attention didn't linger on him.
It slid past him.
To the figure trailing in his shadow.
To Ember.
And in that instant, the air shifted—like the pressure before a storm. Conversations died mid-breath. Damon's easy posture straightened. Mal's illusion blueprints flickered and vanished. Even Aria's sharp gaze narrowed further, and Krux's hands fell still at his sides.
She wasn't just another undead.
They could all feel it.
Sothing about her presence gnawed at the edges of instinct and mory—like standing too close to a fla that shouldn't exist.
"Ah," Riven said, glancing between them. "I suppose I haven't introduced you yet."
The generals straightened subtly, attention sharpening.
Damon scratched the back of his neck. "Well… we did notice you had sothing glued to your side since you got back," he admitted, eyes flicking to Ember. "Figured you'd say sothing when the ti was right."
Their expressions flickered—curiosity sharpening into sothing deeper.
"She's undead," Aria stated, voice flat. Not a question.
Mal's eyes narrowed slightly, scanning Ember from head to toe. "But not like the others."
"Definitely not like the others," Damon muttered. "There's sothing… off about her mana signature. Like it's twisted around sothing deeper."
Krux tilted his head. "She doesn't feel hollow like the rest."
"No," Nyx finally said, her voice calm, even. "Because she's not a typical raise. Riven didn't just reanimate her."
That earned a beat of silence.
Riven exhaled through his nose. "This is Ember. Ember Drakar."
Damon blinked. "Drakar…?"
"My half-sister," Riven confird.
Now the silence stretched longer.
Aria's brow arched ever so slightly. "You killed your sister?"
"I did," Riven said flatly. "And then I brought her back… and even brought back a little more than normal."
Mal's jaw clenched just enough to betray his shock. "You searched the Abyss for a fragnt of her soul."
Nyx gave a half-shrug. "Told you he was insane."
Krux looked between them all, then to Ember. "Wait—you went into the Abyss and pulled a soul out? That's even possible?!"
"No," Mal muttered. "Not unless you're insane… or Riven, I guess."
Ember stepped forward then, folding her arms, her expression unimpressed. "You all talk like I'm not standing right here."
Krux blinked. "Sorry. It's just… we've seen undead. We've seen soulforging. But this?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm special," Ember said, waving a hand. "You can stop staring. I'm not going to bite. Unless you give a reason to."
Damon chuckled under his breath.
"She's stable," Riven said. "The tether holds. Her mind is intact."
"For now," Nyx added with a crooked grin. "Though she's sassier than when she was alive."
"That's because I don't have to be polite anymore," Ember said sweetly.
Krux grinned. "I like her."
Aria sighed. "Of course you do."
Riven's gaze swept over his generals, watching the shock give way to grudging acceptance—or at least curiosity. They didn't fully understand it yet. But they would.
"Alright, enough of the dramatic revelations," Nyx groaned, stretching her arms behind her head. "Can we please go to Vera's already? I'm starving, and I haven't had a single drop of ad in months. I'm practically wasting away."
Several hopeful gazes imdiately turned to Riven—too synchronized, too expectant.
He stared at them flatly. Like a pack of oversized hounds waiting for scraps.
He sighed. "Fine. Just for this afternoon. But don't get used to it—we've got too much to do to make lounging at Vera's a daily routine."
A chorus of triumphant cheers broke out, followed by light laughter as the group began moving toward the bustling heart of the city.
And though Riven didn't say a word more, a faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth—small, but unmistakably real.
Reviews
All reviews (0)