Chapter Thirty-Four: Flames of the Betrayed
"The fire does not ask who is worthy. It only asks who dares to burn."
The Witch of the First Flame struck first.
A sweep of her hand, and the cobblestones under Kael's feet erupted into a wave of molten glass. Heat blistered the air, warping the world into a sick dream. Screams tore through the rebel lines as fighters scrambled to avoid the sudden inferno.
Kael didn't move.
He stood, blade lowered, letting the surge come—and then, in a breath, diving straight into it.
His Heartflame burned against his ribs, answering the Witch's call. But his flame was different. Not pure destruction.
It was rebellion itself.
It was survival.
It was Riven's hand, always steady against his back.
Riven moved with him, dodging the spears of flame, the curses that could split stone.
He had no grand magic to hurl. No spells to shatter mountains.
But he had a dagger.
He had speed.
And he had Kael—who fought like a storm unleashed.
The Witch laughed as she fought them.
"Is this the best you offer, Kael? A half-dead prince and his pet?"
Kael's blade met her spear, locking at the hilt.
"Careful," Kael growled, "you're starting to sound desperate."
Her eyes glinted.
Good.
The battle ripped through the city square.
Statues melted. Marble cracked. Balconies rained fire and stone.
But the people didn't flee.
They watched.
The slum children. The old men with scars. The broken mothers with empty hands.
They watched.
And for the first time, they believed.
The Witch faltered.
Not from wounds.
From fear.
Kael caught it—a flicker in her stance, a tremor in her voice.
"You're losing," Riven said quietly, circling her.
She bared her teeth. "You think you've won anything?"
She raised her hands to the burning sky—and the full force of her magic screamed down.
Kael flung himself forward.
Riven moved without thinking.
And for a heartbeat, the world disappeared into white-hot pain.
Kael woke up under rubble.
His ears rang.
Blood filled his mouth.
But he was alive.
He staggered to his feet—and saw Riven across the ruins, pinned under a fallen column.
His heart stopped.
"Riven."
He ran.
He tore through flame and ash, heedless of his wounds, shoving the stone away with raw, burning strength.
Riven gasped as the weight lifted.
Kael hauled him free, cradling his head.
"You're not allowed to die," Kael whispered fiercely, forehead pressed to Riven's.
"Neither are you," Riven rasped, bloody smile tugging at his lips.
Behind them, the Witch rose from the wreckage, laughing.
"You can't kill fire, Kael! You'll never—"
Kael didn't hesitate.
He kissed Riven once—quick, desperate—then turned.
And let the Heartflame consume him.
The blaze that answered was not human.
It was ancient. Endless. Born of every broken oath, every betrayal, every whispered dream of freedom.
Kael's body became a beacon.
The ground cracked beneath his feet.
The Witch screamed—not in defiance—but in terror.
Kael drove his blade into the earth.
The explosion of light swallowed everything.
When the dust settled, there was no sign of the Witch.
Only Kael—kneeling in the ashes, holding Riven's hand.
The rebels flooded the square.
They didn't cheer.
They knelt.
One by one.
And Kael—scarred, bleeding, crowned in fire—stood.
The siege wasn't over.
The Emperor still waited in the black palace.
But for the first time, the empire knew:
It could fall.
End of Chapter 34