The sky bled.
Not rain. Not fire.
Ash.
It fell in slow spirals, gray-white flecks drifting down like memories, coating the ruined forest in silence. Trees bowed under the weight. The wind didn't dare breathe.
Lucien stood in the open clearing once more, the crown glowing faintly on his brow.
He was no longer hiding.
No longer running.
And the moment he stepped into the sunlight again, the world knew it.
Naeriel stepped beside him, her weapons holstered, eyes wary as she watched the sky split further.
> "The Ash Host is coming."
Lucien said nothing.
Far above them, Heaven's gates trembled.
Saradin stood at their center, surrounded by the celestial elite beings born from light, justice, and violence. Behind them, legions shimmered like fireflies. But at the front, bound in white-gold shackles, knelt seven beings cloaked in ash and silence.
Each wore no halo.
Each bore no wings.
And yet they radiated more power than any angel in the sky.
The Ash Host.
Once angels.
Now something else.
Burned by judgment.
Forged in punishment.
Used only when Heaven wished to erase entire ages.
Saradin turned to them, his voice sharp and cold.
> "The Riftborn walks. Crowned. Awake."
The first of the Ash Host raised its head.
Eyes hollow.
> "Then it is time for silence."
Meanwhile , In the Riftborn ruins.
Naeriel was kneeling now, her hand pressed to the soil.
"They're close," she said. "I can feel the stillness coming."
Lucien flexed his fingers.
The energy in him was no longer unstable. It was refined. Quiet. Like a blade sharpened so thin it didn't need to scream to cut.
He looked to the horizon, voice calm.
> "They're not coming to test me."
Naeriel nodded.
> "They're coming to end you."
Lucien nodded back.
> "Let them try."
Suddenly, a ripple passed through the sky.
Not light.
Not sound.
A voice.
Ancient. Disembodied. Neither male nor female.
Spoken not aloud, but inside every living mind.
> "This balance is not yours to rewrite, child of ruin."
Lucien stepped forward. The crown pulsed.
> "Who are you?"
The voice answered without hesitation.
> "I am the First Word.
The Final Law.
I am the one who divided light from dark."
Naeriel paled.
> "The Architect."
The wind froze.
Even the trees stopped rustling.
The Architect's voice did not echo. It didn't need to. It was the air.
> "You were born from error.
A flaw in the binding.
A breath caught between creation and collapse."
Lucien raised his eyes to the clouds.
> "You created the Riftborn."
> "No," the Architect replied.
"I created the world.
The Rift was an infection.
One I buried."
Lucien took a step forward. "Then why do I exist?"
The clouds roared.
> "Because I was not fast enough."
Lightning split the sky.
But it was not lightning.
It was bodies.
The Ash Host fell from the heavens like judgment incarnate.
Seven of them. Silent. Still. Perfect.
They hit the earth with no sound.
And when the dust cleared, they stood in a ring around Lucien.
No words.
No warnings.
Just cold, righteous purpose.
Naeriel unsheathed her blades, but Lucien raised a hand.
"No," he said.
He stepped forward.
"You want to see what I am?"
He lifted both arms.
The crown ignited.
Not with fire but with memory.
The ground pulsed red and silver.
The trees bent backward.
Even the Ash Host paused.
Lucien's voice rang out across the forest like a sovereign claim:
> "I am not your mistake.
I am your consequence."
He drove his hand into the ground.
And the earth opened.
A rift.
Not into Hell.
Not into Heaven.
Into the space between.
A void of unformed truth.
And from it, something began to climb out.
A figure.
Tall.
Shadowed.
Wearing a crown made of glass and teeth.
A voice whispered from its hollow chest:
> "My king… finally."
Lucien didn't turn around.
He just said:
> "Let's begin."
End of Chapter 10