Chapter Twenty-Five: The March of Cinders
"There are no innocent fires. Only those that burn with purpose."
—Riven
The mountain winds howled like spirits of the dead as the rebels descended into the lowlands.
Kael rode at the front, his armor laced with black leather and scorched steel, flame sigils etched into the plates like warnings. Every step of his warhorse kicked up embers from the dry earth. Behind him, a legion moved—silent, ready, burning with belief.
Riven walked beside him. He refused a horse. He always did.
"You sure you don't want to ride?" Kael asked, arching an eyebrow.
"I trust my feet," Riven said, smirking. "And I don't like being above you."
Kael chuckled, the sound low. "Careful. I might like that too much."
They didn't speak again for a while. They didn't need to.
As night fell, the rebel camp ignited with preparation. Quiet spells for silence. Fire wards around the perimeter. Maps of the capital spread like bloodied cloth across the tables. The Emperor's citadel lay just days ahead.
Kael couldn't sleep. He paced near the edge of the camp, flames twitching at his fingertips. Something restless stirred inside him.
When Riven found him again, he didn't speak. He simply stood beside Kael, waiting. Trusting.
"I don't know if I'm strong enough to face him," Kael admitted at last. "The Emperor... he raised me like a tool. Like a weapon. I don't even know if I am more than that."
Riven turned to him, eyes blazing. "You are."
Kael shook his head. "You don't understand. I was his favorite. I wanted his approval. I believed him. Even after he—"
He stopped.
Even now, it felt like choking on ash to remember.
Riven reached for him, gripping his hand, entwining their fingers. "You're not the boy he broke. You're the man who rebuilt himself from fire."
Kael exhaled slowly. "And what if that fire consumes everything?"
"Then we burn with purpose," Riven said, firm. "Not for vengeance. For freedom. For each other."
The next day, scouts returned.
The Emperor had moved his forces—half his guard was en route to intercept them. But that wasn't the worst of it.
"They've deployed flame-eaters," the scout said, voice shaking.
Kael froze.
"Old magi. Inquisitors," the scout added. "Ones who can consume divine fire. Drain it. Twist it. They're coming for you."
Kael's jaw tightened.
He turned to Riven. "If they touch me, if they try to take the godflame—"
"They won't," Riven interrupted. "Because I'll stop them. Or I'll burn with you."
Kael looked at him then—truly looked. Riven wasn't a mage. He wasn't born with magic. But somehow, Kael felt more power in him than in any fire-wielder. It was in his will. His refusal to break.
And it terrified Kael how much he needed him.
By twilight, they moved again—this time, faster, with purpose. Toward the Emperor's shadow.
Toward war.
Kael rode with fire coiled beneath his skin. Riven walked beside him with his heart aflame.
They had no promise of victory.
But they had each other.
And sometimes, that was the deadliest weapon of all.