Over the course of the next week, time seemed to move both too slowly… and far too fast.
Riven hated every moment of it.
He spent most of his days lying on the narrow cot inside the medical tent, staring up at the canvas ceiling while the sounds of the recovering camp drifted in around him.
Soldiers came and went.
Some groaned in pain.
Others laughed, relieved to still be alive.
The war may have ended… but its aftermath lingered in every corner of Thunderwood.
And Riven was forced to sit still through all of it.
Against his will.
Every time he tried to stand for too long, his body reminded him of its limits.
His muscles would tighten, his chest would ache faintly where the wound had been, and Syanna would inevitably force him back down with a look that left no room for argument.
He wanted to leave.
He needed to leave.
The words of his father echoed constantly in his mind.
Find the castle of Yewshade.
But Vistara had made her stance very clear.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she had said on the second day, arms crossed firmly.
“Not until you can walk without looking like you’re about to collapse.”
And somehow…
Riven listened.
Each day settled into a quiet routine.
Vistara would visit in the mornings, bringing him food before he even had the chance to complain about it.
She never asked if he was hungry—she simply set the tray down and watched him until he started eating.
Syanna came not long after.
Her presence was always calmer.
Softer.
She would sit beside him, carefully unwrapping the bandages across his chest and checking the progress of his recovery.
Though the wound had already been closed once by the surge of soul power, the strain it had put on his body lingered beneath the surface.
Healing it properly… took time.
And effort.
From both of them.
Javon, on the other hand, came and went whenever he pleased.
And almost every time he did…
There was an argument.
On one of the quieter afternoons, sunlight filtered faintly through the tent’s fabric as Syanna worked.
Riven sat upright on the edge of his cot, his shirt pulled slightly aside as she examined the faint line across his chest.
What had once been a deep, brutal wound was now little more than a thin scar—but even that seemed to pulse faintly under her touch.
Syanna placed her hand gently over it.
Her Vyr flowed outward—soft, steady, controlled.
It didn’t burst like Riven’s power.
It moved like water.
Riven watched closely this time.
He could feel it.
Not just warmth… but something deeper.
Something that brushed faintly against his own energy.
Curious, he spoke.
“So… how does your Vyr work?”
Syanna paused.
For a moment, she seemed caught off guard by the question.
Her eyes lifted slightly toward him before drifting back down to her hand.
“…It’s not very impressive,” she said quietly.
Riven didn’t respond.
He just kept watching.
After a second, she continued.
“My Vyr can… interact with others,” she explained slowly.
“I can feel the state of someone’s soul and guide it… help it stabilize.”
As she spoke, her Vyr gently sank deeper into him.
Riven felt it more clearly now.
Not forceful.
Not overwhelming.
But precise.
Like something carefully threading through him.
“I don’t heal the body directly,” she added.
“I help the soul recover… and the body follows.”
Riven’s brow furrowed slightly as he listened.
That made sense.
It felt… similar to what he experienced with Raku.
“But there’s a limit,” Syanna said, her voice softening.
Her hand trembled ever so slightly before steadying again.
“I can only do it so many times in a day. If I push too far…” she hesitated.
“…I can damage my own soul.”
The words hung quietly between them.
Riven’s expression shifted.
He hadn’t expected that.
He looked down at her hand—still resting over his chest, still working carefully.
“…So every time you heal someone,” he said slowly, “you’re risking yourself?”
Syanna didn’t look up.
“…Yes.”
Riven was quiet for a moment.
Then he gave a small nod.
He understood.
More than she probably realized.
Behind her, unseen by most—
Aelwyn stood.
The old spirit watched silently, his translucent form flickering faintly like a distant flame.
His ancient eyes studied the flow of energy between them with quiet interest.
After a moment, he spoke.
“You are doing well, Syanna.”
His voice was calm, measured.
She stiffened slightly, surprised, before glancing over her shoulder.
Aelwyn’s gaze returned to Riven’s chest.
“But do not simply pour your energy into him,” he continued.
“Guide it.”
Syanna blinked.
“Guide it…?”
Aelwyn nodded faintly.
“His soul is not fragile. It is… complex.” His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You must align it, not force it.”
Syanna hesitated, then slowly nodded.
She closed her eyes briefly.
This time, when her Vyr flowed—it changed.
It didn’t just move into Riven.
It listened.
Adjusted.
Riven felt the difference immediately.
The energy no longer pressed into him.
It moved with him.
The faint tension lingering in his chest eased.
From outside the tent—
A loud voice cut through the calm.
“I told you during the battle—you would’ve died if I hadn’t stepped in!”
Riven didn’t even need to look.
Javon.
Another voice snapped back instantly.
“I am already dead, you fool! That argument means nothing!”
Raku.
Riven let out a quiet breath, almost amused.
Syanna blinked in confusion.
“…Are they arguing again?”
“Always,” Riven muttered.
The voices grew louder.
“You’re ungrateful!” Javon shouted.
“I am accurate!” Raku snapped back.
“Unlike you, I did not leave that battlefield covered in wounds!”
“Oh that’s rich coming from a ghost!”
“At least I do not require bandages!”
Riven rubbed his forehead slightly.
“…They’ve been doing this all week.”
Despite herself, Syanna let out a small laugh.
The tension in the tent softened.
For a brief moment…
Everything felt normal.
After days of being confined to the same cot, the same dim lantern light, the same careful routine of healing and rest… the change felt almost unreal.
That morning, Riven swung his legs over the edge of the bed and paused.
He waited.
For pain.
For the sharp pull in his chest.
For the weakness in his limbs.
For the reminder that his body had been pushed far beyond its limits.
But none came.
Slowly, he stood.
His weight settled evenly beneath him.
His breathing remained steady.
The faint ache that had lingered in his muscles over the past week had finally faded into something distant… manageable.
Riven flexed his fingers, then clenched his fist.
Strength answered him.
Not the overwhelming surge he had felt in battle… not that terrifying, borrowed power—but something quieter.
His own.
Recovered.
His gaze drifted toward the tent’s entrance, where sunlight bled softly through the canvas.
I can move again.
The thought settled in his chest—and with it came something sharper.
I need to get stronger.
His jaw tightened slightly.
What he had done against Varnis… it wasn’t sustainable.
It wasn’t control.
It was desperation, instinct, and borrowed strength pushed to the edge.
If he tried that again without understanding it—
He exhaled slowly.
He needed training.
Control.
Mastery.
He needed answers.
Riven pushed himself fully upright.
Almost as if the world had been waiting for that exact moment—
The tent flap shifted.
Vistara stepped inside.
She paused the moment she saw him standing.
For a second, she just stared.
Then she walked toward him, slower this time, her eyes scanning him carefully—like she didn’t quite trust what she was seeing.
“You’re… finally feeling better?” she asked.
Her voice carried a mix of relief and caution.
Riven nodded once.
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation in his voice now.
“I need to go.”
The words landed between them, firm and certain.
Vistara didn’t react immediately.
Instead, she studied his face for a moment longer… searching, measuring.
Then—unexpectedly—a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
“I knew you would say that.”
Riven blinked slightly, caught off guard.
She turned her head toward the tent entrance, then glanced back at him.
“So,” she continued, a hint of something playful in her tone,
“I did a little something for you.”
Riven tilted his head.
Confusion flickered across his expression.
“A little something…?” he repeated.
Vistara didn’t answer.
Instead, she simply gestured toward the exit.
“Follow me.”
There was a quiet confidence in her voice.
Riven hesitated for only a brief moment before stepping forward.
Curiosity pulled him along as he followed her out of the tent.
The moment he stepped outside—
Sound hit him first.
A sudden swell of voices.
Movement.
Energy.
Then—
A burst of color filled the air.
Small pieces of cloth and paper fluttered down from above, catching the sunlight as they drifted through the breeze like falling petals.
Riven stopped.
His eyes widened slightly.
Before him, gathered just beyond the rows of tents, stood a crowd.
Soldiers.
Villagers.
Men and women who had survived the battle.
All of them… looking at him.
And then—
They erupted.
“Our hero!”
The shout rose from the crowd like a wave.
Cheers followed, loud and unrestrained.
Some raised their weapons into the air.
Others clapped, shouted, laughed—relief and excitement spilling over all at once.
Riven stood frozen for a moment, caught in the center of it.
This wasn’t the battlefield.
There was no blood.
No steel.
No killing intent.
Just… gratitude.
He didn’t know what to do with it.
More voices broke through the noise—
“There he is!”
“That’s him!”
“He really did it!”
Riven’s gaze shifted slowly across the crowd, trying to take it all in.
Then—
A smaller voice, closer this time.
“Look, Mom!”
Riven’s eyes lowered slightly.
A child stood near the front of the crowd, pointing up at him with wide, excited eyes.
“That’s the Golden Demon!”
The words cut cleanly through the noise.
For a moment—
Riven didn’t react.
“The… Golden Demon?” he repeated under his breath.
Confusion crept into his expression as he looked back toward Vistara.
The name felt… strange.
Heavy.
Like something that didn’t quite belong to him.
Yet.
Around him, a few soldiers picked up the phrase, laughing as they echoed it. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
“Golden Demon, huh?”
“Not bad.”
“Fits him.”
Another voice chimed in—
“I mean…did you see him out there?”
The murmurs spread.
The name lingered in the air, passing from one person to another, growing just a little more solid each time it was spoken.
Riven stood in the middle of it all, unsure whether to reject it… or accept it.
Beside him, Vistara crossed her arms lightly, watching the crowd with a small, knowing smile.
“Well,” she said, glancing up at him,
“Looks like you’ve got a reputation now.”
Riven exhaled quietly, his eyes drifting back to the people in front of him.
To the ones who were cheering.
To the ones who believed in him.
“The Golden Demon…” he murmured again.
The words felt unfamiliar on his tongue.
But something about them…
Didn’t feel entirely wrong.
For a moment, Riven didn’t know how to respond to the noise—the cheers, the voices calling out to him, the weight of so many eyes resting on his shoulders.
It felt unfamiliar.
Unsteady.
But as the sound continued to rise, something inside him shifted.
Slowly… almost uncertainly… Riven lifted his arm.
His hand closed into a fist as he raised it into the air.
For a single heartbeat—
The world seemed to pause.
Then the crowd erupted.
A thunderous roar surged forward, louder than before, rolling through the streets like a crashing wave.
“YEAHHH!”
“Our hero!”
“The Golden Demon!”
The name echoed again and again, louder each time, until it felt like it had taken on a life of its own.
Riven stood there, arm raised, watching them.
Watching the way their faces lit up.
Watching the way their voices carried something he hadn’t felt directed at him in a long… long time.
Joy.
Relief.
Gratitude.
Before he could fully process it, a voice cut through beside him.
“Come on.”
Vistara stepped closer, her smile bright, almost proud.
“My father wants to give you a reward.”
Riven turned slightly toward her, lowering his arm.
“A reward?” he repeated.
But he didn’t get the chance to say anything else.
Hands reached for him—not rough, not hostile—but eager.
Grasping his arm, his shoulder, gently pulling him forward.
“Come with us!”
“Let him through!”
“Make way!”
The crowd surged around him, guiding him into the street.
Riven found himself moving without deciding to, carried along by the current of people as they led him forward.
“Golden Demon!”
“Golden Demon!”
“Golden Demon!”
The chant rose again, rhythmic now—alive.
It echoed off the stone walls, down the narrow streets, spilling into every corner of Thunderwood.
Riven’s steps slowed slightly as he walked among them.
For the first time since that night…
Since fire consumed his home…
Since everything was taken from him—
He wasn’t alone.
He wasn’t feared.
He wasn’t running.
He was… welcomed.
The realization settled quietly in his chest.
They’re… cheering for me.
A strange warmth spread through him, unfamiliar and almost overwhelming.
Whether he deserved it or not…
Whether they truly understood what he was…
It didn’t matter in that moment.
Because Riven was receiving something he had lost.
Something he hadn’t even realized he had been starving for.
Love.
His expression softened.
And without thinking—
A small smile slipped onto his face.
It was subtle.
Unpracticed.
But real.
And the effect was immediate.
A few people in the crowd closest to him went quiet, caught off guard.
Some of the women slowed their steps, eyes lingering on him a second too long, their expressions softening into something dazed… almost entranced.
“…did you see that?” one whispered under her breath.
Another simply stared, her lips parting slightly as if she had forgotten what she was about to say.
Nearby, a group of men exchanged glances.
One of them let out a low whistle before shaking his head.
“He really is just an enemy to men, isn’t he?”
A few others snorted in agreement.
“Not fair,” another muttered.
“Strong and looks like that?”
One man folded his arms, watching Riven with a half-grin.
“I’d challenge him myself… but I’d like to live a little longer.”
The men around him chuckled, nodding.
“Yeah, same.”
“Hard pass.”
“Man just killed Varnis. I’m not next.”
The laughter blended back into the celebration as the chant picked up again.
“Golden Demon! Golden Demon!”
Ahead of him, Vistara turned slightly, glancing back over her shoulder.
Her eyes landed on Riven—
And she paused.
For just a moment, the noise of the crowd seemed to fade for her.
She saw him not as the warrior who had split a warlord in two…
Not as the figure surrounded by legend and power…
But as the young man walking behind her, smiling softly, still a little unsure of where he belonged.
A warmth spread across her chest.
Unexpected.
Gentle.
Her cheeks flushed faintly before she quickly turned forward again, hoping no one had noticed.
“…come on,” she said, her voice quieter now, though her smile lingered.
And together, they continued forward through the streets.
Carried by the voices of people who had already begun turning Riven into a hero.
The noise of the crowd slowly began to fade as Riven and Vistara made their way through the final stretch of the city.
The streets widened.
The buildings grew taller, more refined—stone replacing wood, banners of gold and white hanging proudly from carved archways.
The air itself felt different here… calmer, more controlled.
Ahead of them, the town hall rose into view.
It stood at the heart of Thunderwood like a symbol of its strength—broad steps leading up to tall double doors, pillars lining the entrance, each one etched with marks of past victories and histories long remembered.
At the top of those steps stood a single figure.
Vistara’s father.
Lord Alric.
He stood with his back straight, hands clasped behind him at first, his presence commanding without effort.
His attire reflected the very spirit of Thunderwood—layered white fabric beneath a structured outer coat of deep gold, trimmed with fine detailing that caught the light with every subtle movement.
It wasn’t armor.
But it carried just as much authority.
As Riven approached, the murmurs behind him quieted.
Even the soldiers who had been cheering moments before now watched with a different kind of respect.
This moment mattered.
Vistara slowed as they reached the base of the steps, then stepped slightly aside, allowing Riven to walk forward.
Alric’s gaze settled on him.
Measured.
Evaluating.
Then—his expression shifted.
A small, approving smile formed as he stepped forward.
“Well…” he began, his voice carrying easily across the space, calm but strong.
“If it isn’t the one-man army himself.”
A few quiet chuckles rippled through the crowd behind them.
Riven stopped a few steps below him.
He didn’t bow.
He didn’t speak.
He simply stood there, meeting the lord’s gaze directly.
Alric seemed to appreciate that.
He brought his hands together in front of him with a soft clasp.
“You stood where others would have fallen,” Alric continued, his tone growing more serious.
“You faced a force that would have broken this city… and you did not yield.”
His eyes hardened slightly—not in anger, but in respect earned.
“You were the sole reason we survived the onslaught brought upon us.”
The weight of those words settled over the crowd.
Riven felt it.
That expectation.
That recognition.
Alric turned slightly, stepping toward a table positioned just behind him at the top of the steps.
“For that reason…” he said, reaching down.
His hand closed around something.
“…Thunderwood offers you a reward worthy of your strength.”
He turned back.
And in his hands—
He held armor.
The moment it caught the light, the crowd seemed to fall into a deeper silence.
It was dark—nearly black—but not dull.
The surface carried a subtle sheen, like polished obsidian, smooth yet battle-worn in a way that suggested age rather than damage.
Along the edges, faint lines of gold traced the contours of each piece, not bright or flashy, but refined… deliberate.
Ancient.
Powerful.
It didn’t look like something forged recently.
It looked like something that had endured.
Riven’s eyes narrowed slightly as he took it in.
There was something about it…
Something familiar.
Not in memory—
But in feeling.
Alric lifted the armor slightly, presenting it.
“We give to you the armor of the ancient legend of th—”
“—Wait.”
The voice cut through the moment like a blade.
Cold.
Sharp.
And filled with something far deeper than surprise.
Before Alric could finish—
A flicker of blue light ignited between them.
The air shifted.
And then—
Raku appeared.
His translucent form materialized fully in front of the steps, the faint glow of his soul casting soft blue light across the armor.
The crowd stirred immediately, whispers breaking out in confusion and awe.
“The spirit—!”
“He’s back—”
“What is that?”
But Raku didn’t acknowledge any of them.
He didn’t even look at Riven.
His eyes were locked on the armor.
Unmoving.
Unblinking.
Something in his expression had changed.
Gone was the calm, disciplined warrior.
In its place—
Recognition.
He stepped forward slowly.
Each movement measured, almost hesitant.
“This…” he said quietly.
His voice was no longer composed.
It carried weight.
Memory.
“This is my armor.”
The words fell heavily into the silence.
Alric’s expression shifted instantly—from pride… to confusion.
“Your—?”
But Raku had already moved closer.
He reached out.
For a moment, his glowing hand hovered just above the surface of the armor—
As if afraid to touch it.
Then, gently… carefully… he let his fingers pass over it.
The blue light of his soul flickered faintly where he made contact, rippling across the dark metal.
“…how did you get this?” Raku asked.
His voice was softer now.
But beneath it—
Something stirred.
Something old.
The crowd watched in stunned silence.
Riven’s gaze shifted between them—between the armor… and the spirit bound to him.
A new question formed in his mind.
Not about himself.
But about Raku.
Who… were you?
“You are… Raku the Phantom Blade?”
Alric’s voice was quieter this time.
Not weak—
But careful.
As if speaking the name too loudly might break whatever stood before him.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Raku did not move.
The faint blue glow of his soul flickered softly in the open air, casting light across the dark armor in Alric’s hands.
The courtyard held its breath.
Then—
Alric stepped forward.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
And lowered himself to one knee.
The sound of metal and fabric shifting was soft… but in the silence, it felt deafening.
“I honor you… great grandfather,” he said, bowing his head.
The words settled over the crowd like falling ash.
No one spoke at first.
Then the whispers began.
“…The Phantom Blade?”
“I thought he was just a story…”
“That’s not possible…”
Voices overlapped, uncertain, disbelieving—yet drawn in all the same.
Riven stood still, a few steps away.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
His eyes were fixed entirely on Raku.
Phantom Blade.
The name echoed in his mind, slower now… heavier.
This was the man who stood beside him in battle.
The man who had answered when he called.
The man who had nearly vanished… just to save him.
And now—
He was something more.
Something history had not forgotten.
Raku finally moved.
It was subtle.
A shift of his shoulders.
A faint lowering of his head.
“Phantom Blade…” he repeated quietly.
The name sounded… distant.
Like it belonged to another life.
Another man.
“That used to be my name.”
His hand lifted slowly toward the armor.
For a moment, it hovered there.
Close enough to touch.
But it didn’t.
“I am now… just Raku.”
The words came softer.
Simpler.
As if he had spent years convincing himself of them.
Then—
His head lowered further.
The blue light around him dimmed just slightly.
“I failed King Maxim.”
Silence followed.
Not the quiet from before—
But something heavier.
Something that pressed down on the chest.
Alric’s head lifted immediately.
“No.”
The word came fast.
Firm.
He rose from his kneeling position, stepping forward without hesitation.
“Grandfather… no.”
There was something different in his voice now.
Not formality.
Not ceremony.
Conviction.
“You did not fail anyone.”
He took another step closer, the armor still in his hands.
“You protected this city.”
His gaze shifted briefly—toward the walls, the people, the lives standing behind him.
“Everything here still stands… because of you.”
The crowd had gone quiet again.
Listening.
Waiting.
“You gave Thunderwood time,” Alric continued, his voice steady.
“Time to survive. Time to rebuild. Time to hope.”
He paused.
Letting the words settle.
“The war ended because men like you refused to fall.”
Another step.
Closer now.
“You didn’t fail.”
A breath.
Then, more quietly—
“You became our legend.”
The wind moved gently through the courtyard, stirring cloaks and banners, carrying his words through the crowd.
Raku didn’t answer.
Not right away.
His form flickered faintly.
As if something inside him had been disturbed… or awakened.
Behind him, Riven finally moved.
One step.
Then another.
Slow.
Measured.
Until he stood beside him.
Close enough to feel the faint chill of Raku’s presence.
But he didn’t interrupt.
Not yet.
He just looked at him.
Really looked.
At the warrior he thought he knew…
And the man he clearly didn’t.
“…Raku,” he said quietly.
No titles.
No reverence.
Just his name.
Raku’s gaze shifted toward him.
Slowly.
“…you were a hero?”
The question was simple.
But it carried everything Riven didn’t understand yet.
Everything he was trying to.
For a moment—
Raku said nothing.
His eyes held Riven’s.
Then drifted… past him.
Toward the city.
Toward the people.
Toward the life that had continued without him.
A faint breath left him.
“…I was a soldier.”
The answer came low.
Honest.
Without pride.
Without denial.
“I did what I had to do.”
A pause.
Long enough to feel.
“…it seems that was enough for them to remember.”
The blue light around him steadied.
Not brighter.
Not weaker.
Just… settled.
And beside him—
Riven stood in silence.
Beginning to understand that the soul bound to him…
Was not just a warrior.
But a man the world had refused to forget.
The courtyard had not yet recovered from the weight of Raku’s revelation.
Whispers still lingered in the air.
Eyes still lingered on him.
On the legend who had just stepped out of history… and into the present.
And yet—
Riven’s attention was no longer on the crowd.
It was on the armor.
The dark plating rested in Alric’s hands, its surface worn but not broken.
Faint golden accents traced along its edges, catching the light just enough to hint at what it once was.
Not just armor.
A legacy.
Riven stepped forward slowly, his gaze fixed on it.
Then, just as slowly, he turned his head toward Raku.
For a brief moment, he said nothing.
As if weighing the words before speaking them.
“It would be an honor…” Riven began, his voice steady but quieter than before, “…to wear your armor.”
He paused.
Not out of hesitation—
But respect.
“Will you allow me?”
The question hung in the air.
It wasn’t directed at Alric.
Not really.
This wasn’t a gift to be taken.
It was something that had to be given.
Raku turned fully toward him.
For a moment, the spirit said nothing.
His glowing eyes searched Riven’s face—studying him in a way he never had before.
Not as a wielder.
Not as a commander.
But as something more.
“Sire…” Raku said quietly.
The word carried a different weight this time.
Not just loyalty.
Recognition.
There was a faint shift in his expression—subtle, but real.
Something close to pride.
Something close to relief.
“This humble soul…” he continued, his voice softening, “…would be honored to have you wear my armor.”
Then—
Raku bowed.
Deeply.
Not as a servant.
But as a knight acknowledging the one worthy to carry what he once bore.
The motion drew a quiet reaction from the crowd.
Even Alric lowered his head slightly in response.
Riven stood still for a second.
Just watching him.
Taking it in.
Then he reached forward and accepted the armor.
The metal felt heavier than he expected.
Not physically—
But in meaning.
Before he could say anything, Alric stepped forward again.
“Riven,” he said, his voice carrying across the courtyard, though it lacked the earlier formality.
This time, it was more personal.
“Not only did you save this city…”
He gestured slightly toward Raku.
“…you’ve given me something I never thought I would have again.”
His expression softened.
“My great grandfather.”
A pause.
“For that… words are not enough.”
He straightened slightly.
“So I will give you what I can.”
The crowd leaned in, listening.
“I grant you land within Thunderwood’s domain,” Alric declared, “and I place this armor—my great grandfather’s armor—into your hands.”
He nodded once.
“With my full trust.”
Riven didn’t respond immediately.
He stood there, armor in hand.
Silent.
His mind struggled to catch up with everything that had just happened.
A few days ago—
He was fighting just to survive.
Now—
He stood in front of an entire city, being honored, rewarded… trusted.
It felt unreal.
Off to the side, the tension broke slightly.
Javon leaned in toward the others, shaking his head with a low whistle.
“I’m telling you,” he muttered, just loud enough for them to hear, “Riven’s luck is actually ridiculous.”
He crossed his arms, glancing back toward Riven.
“What are the chances of that?”
Syanna let out a quiet breath, still watching the scene unfold, her expression softer than usual.
Before she could respond— thud.
Vistara’s fist connected cleanly with Javon’s arm.
“Shut up,” she said, not even looking at him.
Javon winced slightly, rubbing his arm.
“I’m just saying—”
“Just enjoy the moment,” she cut in.
Her eyes were already back on Riven.
And there was something different in her expression now.
Not just relief.
Not just admiration.
Something warmer.
Quieter.
Back at the center of it all—
Riven finally moved.
His grip tightened slightly on the armor.
Then he looked up.
First at Alric.
Then at Raku.
Then—briefly—at the people watching him.
People who were no longer looking at him with doubt.
Or fear.
But belief.
He exhaled slowly.
“…Thank you,” he said.
The words were simple.
But they carried everything he didn’t know how to say yet.
And as he stood there—
Holding the armor of a legend…
With a legend standing beside him…
Riven took another step forward into a life he never expected to live.