The air in the broken sanctum hung thick—too still, too silent.
As if the world itself was trying to understand what had just awakened inside Riven.
Azael still held him, Riven's weight soft against his chest, wings wrapping them in a cocoon of shadow. But even through exhaustion, Riven felt it—
the shift.
The tremor in the air.
The whisper beneath the stone.
The pressure like unseen eyes turning toward him.
"Azael…" Riven murmured weakly. "Something's wrong."
Azael exhaled, steady but tense.
"They felt you," he answered quietly.
"Every faction that still lives… felt that awakening."
Riven swallowed, dread creeping through him. "All of them?"
Azael shifted just enough to look him in the eyes, silver irises glowing faintly in the darkness.
"All of them," he confirmed.
"And not all will come as enemies."
Riven opened his mouth to speak, but pain sliced through his ribs—sharp, burning, like something inside him was expanding.
He gasped.
Azael caught him before he fell. "Riven—!"
The burning mark across his chest flared violently, black-gold lines twisting like molten metal under his skin.
Riven's back arched in agony.
"I—I can't— it's—"
He clenched his teeth as another wave hit.
"It feels like something's tearing out!"
Azael cursed under his breath and lowered him gently to the ground. The shadows around them tightened in a protective dome.
"This isn't an attack," Azael muttered, kneeling beside him. "It's your power stabilizing. Your body is adjusting to what it remembers you were."
Riven shook, sweat beading his forehead. "Feels like it's killing me."
"It won't."
Azael brushed Riven's hair from his fever-hot forehead.
"Not while I'm here."
The mark flared again—
and this time the pain felt different.
It wasn't destruction.
It was opening.
Riven's vision blurred as black-gold light pushed through the lines of the mark, forming shapes—sigils—scripts he'd never learned but somehow recognized.
Ancient.
Forbidden.
His.
"Azael…" he whispered hoarsely. "I know these symbols."
Azael froze, eyes narrowing. "Describe them."
Riven blinked hard, trying to focus through the pain.
"They look like… a seal."
Azael's expression darkened instantly.
"Of course," he breathed. "They sealed you before they killed your last form. That's why your memories shattered."
Riven's heart skipped.
His last form?
He tried to ask—but the mark pulsed again.
This time, energy burst from his body like a shockwave. The stone around him cracked. Dust lifted off the ground. Azael steadied himself with a shadow anchor.
The sigils glowed brighter—
then snapped into place like a lock breaking.
Riven gasped as the final seal cracked open.
Something inside him unfurled like wings.
For a moment—
—everything went silent.
Then Riven saw it.
Not with his eyes.
With the part of him that once commanded stars:
A battlefield made of ash.
A blade of light in his hand.
Azael kneeling, wings torn, swearing his life to him.
Armies bowing.
Reality bending.
His heart thundered in his chest.
"I remember," he whispered.
Azael's breath caught. "How much?"
Riven looked up at him.
"Enough."
Their gazes locked—intense, electric, charged with something old and new.
Azael leaned in slightly, voice barely above a whisper.
"Does remembering frighten you?"
Riven's answer trembled in the air.
"Yes.
But losing you frightens me more."
Azael drew in a sharp breath—
—but before he could respond, the shadows at the chamber's entrance shifted.
Not Azael's shadows.
Not the lingering remnants of the Hunter.
Another presence.
Riven stiffened, pushing himself upright just as a cold wind swept through the sanctum.
Azael snapped into defense mode instantly, positioning himself between Riven and the looming darkness.
An echoing voice drifted from the entrance—smooth, amused, dripping with power:
"Well, well… the Eternal One rises again."
A figure stepped through the smoke—
tall, elegant, wrapped in dark robes that shimmered with runic marks.
His eyes—sharp, golden, predatory—locked onto Riven with familiarity.
Too much familiarity.
Riven's blood chilled.
"Azael…" he whispered. "Who is that?"
Azael's wings tightened protectively around him.
"That," Azael said slowly, voice deep and lethal,
"is someone who should not be here."
The figure smiled—beautiful, terrifying, knowing.
"Hello, Riven," he purred.
"Do you remember me yet?"
Riven's heart hammered.
Because suddenly—
he did.
A flash of memory:
Fingers trailing his jaw.
A voice whispering promises.
A shadowed throne.
A betrayal so deep it tore worlds open.
Riven staggered.
"You," he breathed.
The man smiled wider.
"Yes," he murmured.
"Me."
Azael stepped forward, shadows dripping from his hands like blades.
"Stay behind me," he warned Riven.
The man tilted his head. "Oh, Azael… still loyal? Still tragic? Still pretending he doesn't belong to me as much as Riven did?"
Azael's shadows surged with fury.
Riven felt something inside him snap.
"No," Riven said, rising to his feet, ignoring the lingering pain, his newly awakened power curling around him like a storm.
"You don't get to touch him.
You don't get to claim him.
Not anymore."
The man's smile sharpened, delighted.
"There he is," he whispered.
"The one the worlds tremble for."
Azael glanced back at Riven, a flicker of something raw in his eyes.
The intruder stepped forward, darkness rippling behind him like wings.
"Let's see," he said softly, "if the Eternal One has truly awakened."
The ground shook.
Azael's stance tightened.
Riven's mark burned.
And the war for him—
for what he was—
for what he would become—
had just begun.