Riven opened his eyes with a sharp gasp.
He sat up straight, his body tensing as his eyes darted around—but... wait. This wasn't Glimfell.
He wasn't among the city's ruins, not buried under ash or engulfed in flames. He was standing on a high hill, so high that it pierced the clouds. A cool breeze gently brushed through his hair. Below, the clouds drifted like a sea of white, and the world stretched out endlessly in all directions—mountains, valleys, and a spotless, open sky.
"What the hell...?" Riven muttered, confused.
He tried to remember. The last thing he recalled... he was holding a wooden staff, and then...
"The dragon... I cut it down, right?" he whispered, almost in disbelief. "Yeah... I must have done it."
But if that's true... then why is he here?
That's when he turned, and saw someone.
A man sat casually atop a large cracked boulder. His appearance was like a mirror—his face, his eyes, even the way he sat. Except he looked older, maybe in his early thirties. The stone beneath him was etched with faint sword marks, as if someone had spent years training their strikes there.
The man was eating an apple. Where he got it from, Riven had no idea.
"The view from up here is nice, isn't it?" the man said casually, without turning.
Riven frowned. "Who are you exactly?"
He remembered this man. This was the same man who, in a previous dream, had shown him a perfect slash capable of cutting through anything.
There was something familiar about him now, and unlike before, there was no sense of pressure. Oddly enough, Riven felt calm. He wasn't afraid of the figure at all.
The man took another bite of his apple, chewing slowly before answering, "I'm you."
Riven crossed his arms. "You look like me, but you're clearly not me."
"Not yet. But you will be."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Riven scoffed. "And where is this? I'm supposed to be in Glimfell."
"You still are, sort of. This is just... a moment in between. Between life and death, between consciousness and unconsciousness."
Riven glared at him. "Alright, then... do you know what happened to my sister? Melly? Is she safe?"
The man smiled faintly. "She's safe. For now."
Riven let out a breath of relief, then looked around again. "So... this is a dream?"
"You could say that."
"If it's a dream, why are you talking like some old philosopher?"
"Because we need to talk. There are things you can only understand when your mind is quiet."
Riven rolled his eyes. "If you really are me, then you'd know I hate pointless, roundabout conversations."
The man chuckled. "Relax. I only have one question."
"What?"
"Are you enjoying your life, Riven?"
Riven let out a long sigh. "What kind of question is that? I've lived twice, and both times were hell. My life has been nothing but hard work, scraping for food, stressing over my siblings' school fees, and trying to stay sane in a rotten world. In my previous life, I literally died from overwork. So no, I didn't enjoy it."
"Then why did you keep going?"
"Because I had to. I had responsibilities."
"So you loved them?"
"Yes. But—"
"If you didn't, you could've just walked away. But you didn't."
Riven scowled at him. "What's the point of all this? What are you trying to say? I don't care about pretty views or vague wisdom. I just want to wake up and make sure Melly's okay."
The man shrugged. "I just wanted to remind you. If one day... your family is no longer with you, don't do anything stupid."
Riven snapped, "Why are you talking like you know that'll happen? Who the hell are you really?"
The man smiled again. "I told you. I'm you."
"Bullshit."
"If you really want to wake up, fine." The man stood up and tossed something toward Riven—a sword. The hilt smacked Riven in the head, knocking him flat.
"Ow!"
"Why so impatient? We won't be meeting again after this."
Riven rubbed his head and picked up the sword. "You sure you're really me? Since when did I become so philosophical? Have you been stuck alone up here for too long?"
The man laughed softly. "Maybe you're right. That's why now, I'm handing my place over to you."
Riven raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
The man didn't answer. He just looked up at the sky, then said quietly—but clearly, "Zerachiel. That... is your name. Our name."
Riven froze. "What?"
But before he could ask more, the ground beneath his feet trembled. Cracks split through the sky. The wind howled.
The clouds shattered.
And everything was consumed by blinding white light.
.
.
.
Riven's consciousness returned slowly. His eyelids felt like stone, but he forced them open. As the world around him came back into focus, the first sensation he felt was cold.
A chilly breeze slipped through cracks in the wooden walls. The air smelled of dust, damp earth, and rotting timber. His body felt stiff. Heavy. When he tried to move his hands, he realized—
He was bound.
Thick wooden roots coiled tightly around his body, creeping like living snakes from the floor and walls of a moving carriage. They wrapped around his wrists, his chest, his legs—tightening with every struggle, as if they were aware their prey had woken.
His vision was still blurry, but he could tell he was inside a wooden wagon, bumping along a dirt road. He could hear the creaking of old wheels and the steady clop of hooves outside.
With effort, he turned his head and his heart dropped.
Melly.
His sister was lying next to him in the same position, her body also bound by those unnatural roots. Her face was pale, a wound on her temple, dried blood on her cheek, and a dark bruise along her neck. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing was faint but steady—unnaturally calm, like she'd been forced into sleep rather than resting.
"Melly…" he whispered, voice hoarse and dry.
Before he could say more, a familiar raspy voice called out from the front of the wagon, just beyond the thin wooden partition where the driver sat.
"You woke up sooner than I expected," the voice said casually, laced with mocking ease. "Only half a day since your affinity awakened."
That voice… Riven knew it instantly.
He looked toward the front—and his body trembled, not from cold, but from the fury starting to build in his chest.
Seated on the driver's bench, back facing them, was a man with messy brown hair, wearing a tattered cloak ripped in several places. His round glasses were cracked, and most of his body looked like it had been dragged through hellfire.
His arms were covered in terrible burns, visible through the shredded sleeves. His cloak was scorched black along the back, and dried blood crusted along the seams. Despite his injuries, his hands calmly held the reins.
At his side hung a sword Riven recognized instantly—Riftmaker. His sword. The very one taken from him before he was captured.
Marquess Briarwood.
One of the noblemen of the Iskandria Kingdom.
And... the traitor who sided with Mordune to bring down Glimfell.
"I'm honestly disappointed," he continued, not bothering to look back. His tone was light, like he was chatting in a drawing room. "Your sweet little sister promised to be a good girl. Said she'd obey me. But just earlier, she refused to come with me. Such a disobedient child, don't you think?"
Riven glared at the man's back, his breathing ragged. Though his body was bound, the fire in his chest begged to burn free.
He swallowed, then growled through gritted teeth:
"What did you do to my sister?"
The Marquess still didn't turn. His voice remained calm.
"I just put her to sleep. Don't worry. It wasn't painful... well, not too much."
Riven's teeth clenched. His fingers curled uselessly, unable to break the roots. But his tongue was still sharp, and his rage was far from spent.
"Where are you taking us?! What are you planning?!"
Marquess Briarwood gave a lazy shrug and sighed.
"Since the mad queen is still alive," he said, more serious now, "my family will surely be hunted. My life in Iskandrite is over. So... I figured, why not start over somewhere far away?"
He tapped his knee, his voice almost amused again.
"Maybe I'll head to another kingdom. Mordune? Arendise, perhaps? Both are far, both are promising. And you two... well, you're coming with me, of course."
Then he turned slightly, just enough for Riven to glimpse his face.
That thin smile... cold as ice. And his eyes—tired, bloodshot, but still burning with wild ambition.
"So, Riven," he said lightly, "where do you think we should go?"