Chapter One: The Ash Knight
They said love was the oldest magic—chaotic, consuming, and cursed. Kael had buried that truth in ash long ago. But ash remembers fire.
Smoke curled from the edges of Kael Vaerin's cloak as he stepped over the remains of what had once been a village. The fires still burned, flickering like dying stars against the dark earth. It wasn't his work—this time. Rebels had struck first. The retaliation had only ensured no one struck again.
"Secure the perimeter," he ordered, voice cold enough to cut. The soldiers around him moved without hesitation. That was the way of things. When the Ash Knight spoke, you obeyed—or you burned.
He stepped into what remained of the town square. Blood and soot clung to stone like paint. A banner—black and silver, the symbol of rebellion—was pinned beneath a corpse, its edges still smoldering. Kael stared at it for a moment, wondering if this time, it might actually be over.
It never was.
The prisoner was dragged before him just before nightfall.
Kael barely glanced up. Another rebel. Another fool with a mouth full of fire and no sense of what that fire could cost.
"He won't speak," one of the guards muttered, gripping the chains around the man's wrists. "Already tried."
Kael raised a hand, silencing him. Then he looked.
The rebel was…unexpected.
Slighter than most. Lean, not weak—he held himself like someone used to running, fighting, surviving. His silver hair fell in messy strands over his brow, half-hiding a sharp gaze that shimmered unnaturally—one eye blue, one violet. Kael's gaze narrowed.
"You're not from here."
The rebel tilted his head, lips curled in a half-smirk. "Neither are you."
Kael stepped forward, silent. His boots crunched over blackened gravel. The air shimmered around him with residual heat. The guards shifted, uneasy.
"You know who I am?"
"Of course," the man replied, voice too smooth for someone in chains. "You're the Ash Knight. The Empire's favorite weapon."
Kael ignored the barb. "Name."
"Riven."
"Riven what?"
The rebel shrugged. "Depends who's asking. You might get 'Solace,' if I'm feeling generous."
Kael's jaw tightened. That name meant something. He'd heard it whispered in reports, carved into walls, scrawled in blood: Solace lives. A ghost. A rumor. A problem.
This wasn't just a rebel.
This was the rebel.
They locked Riven in the lower cells of the Ember Citadel—beneath stone, beneath flame, beneath reach. Kael visited at midnight.
"You should be dead," he said, standing outside the bars.
"I get that a lot."
"You burned half a garrison. Magic like that—" Kael's voice lowered, dangerous now. "It's forbidden."
Riven leaned forward, just enough for the torchlight to catch the glint of violet in his eye.
"Then you'd better keep me a secret."
Silence fell.
Kael should have called for execution. Should have ended this with a blade through the heart. But he didn't. Something in him, long buried, stirred. It wasn't pity. It wasn't even curiosity.
It was recognition.
"Where did you learn Heartflame?" he asked.
Riven's smile vanished.
"You know that name," he said softly.
Kael didn't answer.
Heartflame. Magic born not of words or rituals, but of emotion. Love, fury, desire—it pulled power from the soul, not the air. It was ancient, volatile. And it had been wiped out generations ago. Or so they'd said.
Now, one man remained. A man in chains. A man Kael should destroy.
But instead, he walked away.
Later that night, Kael stood at the edge of the Citadel's highest balcony, watching the lights of the empire flicker in the distance. They glowed like embers, scattered across the horizon—fading, failing.
Behind him, the doors opened.
"You're letting him live." It wasn't a question.
Kael didn't turn. "For now."
"You're making a mistake," General Tovrek snapped. "He's a threat. If he escapes—"
"He won't."
Tovrek stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You're not thinking clearly, Kael. The Emperor won't forgive hesitation. That kind of magic… it's contagious. It corrupts."
Kael's hand curled around the railing.
"You think I don't know that?"
He left Tovrek standing there, cloaked in silence and fury.
In the days that followed, Kael visited the cell again. And again. He told himself it was caution. Study. Interrogation.
It wasn't.
Riven spoke little about the rebellion. Even less about his power. But he talked about the world—the parts Kael had forgotten: the sky over the Ashen Wastes, the sound of music in the lower markets, the way snow fell like feathers in the northern isles. His voice painted pictures Kael hadn't realized he missed.
And sometimes, when Riven looked at him, he didn't look afraid.
He looked like he knew him.
Kael didn't ask why that mattered. He didn't dare.
But one night, as the torchlight dimmed and silence pressed close, Riven leaned against the bars and murmured:
"I don't think you're a weapon. I think you're a man who forgot how to feel without breaking."
Kael said nothing.
But something inside him cracked.
Just a little.
He was the Ash Knight. Cold. Unbreakable. Loyal to fire and empire.
But now he had a name—Riven—and a choice.
And Kael had never been good at choosing anything but ruin.