The eastern gate looked the same as it always had—thick iron bars, worn stone, guards slouched in their posts with the usual mix of boredom and suspicion. Riven adjusted his hood, trying to hide the exhaustion dragging at his face.
His boots crunched over the frost-covered ground.
One of the guards straightened. His brows pulled together.
"Hold on. You look… familiar."
Here it comes, Riven thought.
He lowered the hood.
The guard's eyes widened. "Riven? You're—wait, we were told you died!"
His shout drew the attention of the second guard, who nearly dropped his spear.
Riven forced a tired smile. "Almost did."
The first guard stepped forward. "What—how?"
Now came the lie.
Riven exhaled slowly, letting weariness—not all of it fake—sink into his shoulders. "I was separated during the battle. Took a blade to the ribs and fell down a ravine. I… found a cave near the base. Small. Hidden. The enemy didn't follow."
Both guards stared, jaws slightly slack.
Riven looked down at his torn clothes, the dried blood, the lingering stiffness in his movements—none of it fabricated.
"I stayed there until it was safe," he continued quietly. "Then made my way back. It took… longer than I expected."
The second guard let out a shaky laugh. "You lucky bastard. They already carved your name into the memorial wall."
Riven blinked. They did what?
The first guard clapped his shoulder. "You'll live to see someone scrape it off, eh? Go on. Report to the barracks. They'll want to know you're alive."
Riven nodded and stepped past them, through the gate.
The city spread before him, familiar yet somehow distant—a place he'd walked through his entire life, now feeling like a stranger's home. Market stalls were closing for the evening, lanterns flickering to life along the stone paths. People rushed by him without recognizing the boy they'd been told was dead.
A strange emptiness settled in his chest.
He wasn't sure if he missed this place… or if he'd just outgrown it.
When he reached the barracks, the reaction was louder, rougher, and far less graceful.
"RIVEN?!"
He barely had time to brace before arms clamped around him—his squadmates, shouting over one another.
"Thought you were gone!"
"We found your sword—you were bleeding out—how the hell are you walking?!"
"Damn it, we mourned you!"
Riven let them talk. He repeated the same lie—ravine, hidden cave, survived by chance. Some of them looked at him like a ghost. Others thumped him on the back so hard his healed wounds throbbed.
Captain Renard eventually approached, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Riven stiffened. This man had seen him fall. Had turned his back and left him behind.
The captain stared at him for a long moment. Then he grunted, "You're either the luckiest soldier I've ever met, or the hardest to kill."
Riven gave a small nod. "Just did what I had to."
Renard's eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but in assessment. Then he stepped aside.
"Get some rest. Report for duty in three days."
Three days.
Riven bowed slightly and walked toward the small sleeping quarters behind the barracks. His steps felt heavy, but his mind was clearer than it had been in years.
The moment the door closed behind him, silence settled like dust.
He sat on the edge of the narrow bed and let out a breath he'd been holding since the mountains.
He was back.
Alive.
Accepted.
And yet, nothing felt the same.
Not the walls.
Not the air.
Not himself.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together.
He had returned for one reason:
To grow stronger.
Stronger than the beasts outside the kingdom.
Stronger than the soldiers around him.
Stronger than the rulers who condemned his father.
Stronger than the fate that almost killed him.
The sword alone would never give him that strength.
Not anymore.
Riven closed his eyes and pictured the dragon waiting in the dark forest far from the walls—its steady breath, its watchful gaze, its quiet understanding.
A secret.
A bond.
A path.
He opened his eyes again, resolve settling into place like iron cooling in water.
"Three days," he whispered to himself. "Then I begin."
The kingdom welcomed him back as a survivor.
But soon, he would become something far more dangerous.
Not through hate.
Not through rage.
Through power.
Real power.
***
Riven arrived at the palace just as the morning sun gilded the rooftops. He expected the usual routine—warm greetings, the uncomfortable small talk with the prince, and then hours of training that felt both familiar and tedious.
Instead, a messenger, panting and wide-eyed, intercepted him in the courtyard.
"Training is canceled!" the man announced, waving a scroll frantically. "A portal rift has appeared in the village of Darsfield! The knights have been mobilized immediately. All able-bodied soldiers must leave at once!"
Riven's brow furrowed. "Portal… rift?"
The messenger nodded vigorously. "Yes! From the beast world! Creatures have been crossing through! The villagers are defenseless! Orders are to protect them at all costs!"
A chill ran down Riven's spine, but it wasn't fear. Not exactly. It was anticipation.
Portal rifts were rare—but dangerous. When they appeared, the monsters that crawled through were unpredictable, brutal, and often massive. It was the knights' duty to stand between the invading beasts and the citizens of the kingdom.
Riven adjusted his armor, the familiar weight of the metal comforting against his chest. His father's lessons, his own training with the dragon, the faint magic stirring within him—all of it surged with purpose. Today, he would see what a real threat looked like.
The courtyard quickly filled with soldiers mounting horses, gathering weapons, and forming ranks. Riven slipped quietly into formation. He didn't need orders; he knew what was expected. Protect the villagers. Survive. Fight.
The ride to Darsfield was fast, a blur of hooves on dirt roads and wind cutting through cloaks. Riven kept his eyes on the horizon, scanning the forests and hills for any sign of the rift.
When the village came into view, the scene was worse than he imagined. Smoke curled into the sky from the outskirts, and terrified villagers ran toward the center of town. Horses neighed, soldiers shouted orders, and in the distance, a faint shimmering light twisted in the air—like the very fabric of reality itself had been torn.
The portal rift.
Riven's pulse quickened. He felt a familiar tug in his chest—not fear, but excitement. The dragon's lessons, the magic book, the whispers of power he could barely control… they all demanded to be tested.
The knights charged forward in disciplined lines. Riven followed, sword in hand, eyes fixed on the portal. Through it, he could see shapes moving—large, lumbering forms, snarling beasts that didn't belong in this world.
As he rode closer, he realized just how dangerous this would be. Not every knight would survive. Not every village would be spared.
And Riven, for the first time in a long time, felt the weight of his bloodline stirring inside him—the Dragon Lord's rage, focus, and potential.
He didn't know how to use it fully yet. Not completely. But the portal rift had appeared, and the beasts were coming.
There would be no hiding.
No excuses.
No delay.
Riven clenched the sword in his hands.
It was time to fight.