They both didn't say anything for a while after he slayed the knight.
Riven sat by a crumbling arch, the dust still settling from the fight, his blade rested across his lap, streaked with mud and dry blood.
The mark on his arm pulsed slowly beneath his shirt, still faint, but warm from the absorption.
He didn't regret the last strike, but he didn't feel quite proud of it either—just felt hollow inside... like an echo of a bell long since silenced.
Veyla stood nearby, her back turned, staring off toward the edge of the ruins. She crossed her arms over her chest.
The wind adjusted her cloak, stirring the dead grass at her feet. She hadn't congratulated him on his first win. She hadn't said anything at all, which made her silence louder.
Eventually, he spoke out, "You've been quiet, Veyla."
She didn't say anything or even flinch, just stood there.
He tried again, softer this time. "Say it, Veyla. Say what you've been holding in."
Veyla shifted, but didn't look at him. "You want to hear it from me?" Her voice slightly annoyed.
"I want you to stop acting like I'm some kind of monster."
She turned then, slowly facing him, her expression unreadable. Her hand rested lightly on the hilt of her sword—not threatening, but out of instinct, like she wasn't so sure who she'd be talking to: him, or whatever the Rune was turning him into.
"I'm not calling you a monster, am I?" she said, her voice a bit louder than it was meant to be. "At least, not yet."
He flinched, and his heart pounded slightly at her comment, but he didn't press.
Veyla stepped closer, her eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with a deeper emotion: worry.
"I've seen this before," she said. "Not exactly it, but close enough." Her voice low but firm.
His expression tightened with confusion. "Someone with the same curse?" he asked.
She nodded slowly before continuing. "There was a woman I once heard about. She was from the Scorch Line. She fought during the Ash Rebellion, though she didn't have a Rune like yours. But she was born hollow, with no Grace or Flame Keeper. And then one day, she came back from the dead with a mark inscribed on her. It wasn't Grace or remnants—it was something out of this world," she said, her fingers tracing the mud.
"So, what happened to her?" he asked, his attention piqued.
Veyla looked past him, still remembering the full story. "Well, she started absorbing power, like you. At first, it was a small beast here, a corrupted Cinder Knight there... she slowly got stronger. She even won fights no one should have survived. People praised her, said the gods chose her, said she was an angel from above." She shifted slightly.
Riven leaned forward, his hands resting on his thighs. "So, what happened next?"
"She started forgetting things, slowly. Started with her name. She couldn't remember what her name was. Then, slowly, she forgot her past, too. And by the time she reached the Boneway, she couldn't remember a thing," she paused to take a breath. "She stood before the Flame Keeper of Eorath, and she couldn't say anything. Just stood there."
Riven listened to her quietly, as if she were telling a folk story.
"What happened to her?" he asked, leaning in closer.
"She killed the keeper. Burned through a thousand flame-born like they were kindling. Then, after everything, she turned to ash. Right there in the snow. Nothing left but her clothes and boots," she said, her expression still sad, almost done tracing whatever it was she was tracing.
He looked down at his hands. They didn't tremble at the story, not even a little.
Then, with a low voice, he asked, "Do you think I'll end up like her?"
"I'm not sure, Riven. But I know what happens when people keep pulling power from something they don't know about—or that doesn't belong to them," she said simply, now staring at whatever she'd traced in the mud.
Riven looked past her, glancing at the broken statue behind her near the far wall. A figure once shaped like a saint, now half-melted by rot.
"The Rune doesn't request me. It just happens out of my control," he began. "When I kill, it feeds on their power. And when I survive, it takes it all," he said, tracing the mark on his palm.
"And every time it gives you something, it takes something else in return," she said, staring at him like he was her lover who was about to die.
"I know, I know..." he responded, bending his head slightly.
"Do you?" she questioned intently, but he didn't respond.
She stood up and stepped closer to him, kneeling in front of him. Her voice was lower now—not soft, but real.
"You acted kindly the day we met."
Riven stared at her, their hands touching.
"Today, you didn't react when you stabbed a man through the chest. And I knew he attacked first, I know he chose the fight. But you didn't hesitate at all. You didn't even think," she murmured.
He exhaled slowly, a thin breath through his nostrils.
"You're afraid I'll lose myself?" he asked, his brows raised.
"I think you already are, Riven," she said coldly.
The wind shifted in the distance—cold and sharp.
He stood up slowly. Veyla watched him rise, but she didn't move.
"Then what would you have me do?" he asked. "Stop fighting? Let the next knight kill me? Or let the remnants eat me because I'm too afraid to use it?"
She stood up slowly. "No. That's not what I meant," she said. "But I'd rather have you choose. Not just React."
He shrugged as her fingers traced his chest and stopped right below it.
"That thing's dangerous, Riven. I'm not saying don't use it. I'm just saying, stop pretending it won't use you back," she said.
The wind carried dust again as she spoke. It fell softly, like snow speckling the surrounding ruins.
"You think it has a mind of its own?" he asked.
"I know it does," she answered—not really sure of it.
He reached into the side pouch on his belt, pulled out a strip of cloth, and slowly tied it across his arm, covering the rune beneath the layers of his shirt.
It didn't change anything, but it helped him forget it was there—just for a while.
Then he looked at Veyla. "I can't give up," he said firmly.
"I didn't ask you to," she responded, her expression soft.
He stood and turned to leave, and she followed, walking close behind him.
As they walked through the remains of the ruined chapel, the silence between them returned, but it wasn't harsh anymore.
Riven stepped over the corpse of a broken knight, then paused above it.
He noticed a piece of armor. The armor was cracked and scorched, but old. Ancient, etched with the same spiral thorns as the runes on his arm.
"What is this?"
He crouched and picked it up—a pauldron: heavy and burnt on the inside. And as his hand touched it, the rune reacted, and a memory played in his head.
A man kneeling in a field of bones, screaming into a fire.
Riven immediately dropped the piece and staggered back out of fear... but Veyla was already beside him, holding him from falling.
"What was that?" she asked, her expression that of worry and fear.
"Someone's memory," he responded, his palm on his face.
"I told you," she said, her hand resting on his shoulder.
"I'm beginning to understand you now," he said.