Slade's boots crunched through debris as he dragged a limp, half burned body through a ruined doorway, a trail of ash smeared behind like a signature. Riven's skin was torn, scorched, and his shredded clothes hung off him in wet ribbons of blood. The boy was barely breathing.
"Damn stubborn idiot," Slade muttered, voice taut. "What the hell did you do down there?"
He kicked aside rusted tools and a shattered crate, clearing room on a wobbly cot tucked in the back. He laid Riven down with somewhat care, his gloved hand hovering above the boy's chest like he didn't know if he should check for a heartbeat or say goodbye.
Still warm.
"Good."
Slade pulled a flask from his belt, pouring a trickle of water over Riven's cracked lips.
"C'mon, kid. Don't die now. Not after all that fire and fury. That would just be... inefficient."
-----------------------------------------
It started as a twitch in Riven's fingers. Then a gasp. Then pain. All at once. Agony lit up his nerves like lightning. His back arched and one wing jerked free from the blanket draped over him, twitching with spasms. His shoulder burned like someone had poured molten metal into it.
"Oh great," he rasped, eyes rolling. "I'm alive. Just what I wanted. Burning agony and the world's worst pillow."
His vision swam, stabilizing just enough to register a hooded figure slouched in a chair across the room, arms folded, face half-buried in shadow.
"Let me guess…" Riven croaked. "Grim Reaper's running late, so you're the opening act?"
Slade didn't smile. "Welcome back to the land of the living."
"Well. That's disappointing."
"You're in the basement of an old smithy," Slade said. as he removed his hood. "One of the few places in Wyrmsreach where no one asks questions."
He pulls out a ruffled cigarette, and sticks it in his mouth.
Riven tried to sit up again, and immediately groaned. "Okay. Question one, why the hell am I not dead?"
Slade passed him a dented tin cup filled with water. Then flicks open a lighter, lighting his cigarette. "Because I dragged your half-dead ass out of that crater before the Marines got there."
Riven took the cup, watching him over the rim. "You tried to kill me two days ago."
Slade shrugged. "You stole something that didn't belong to you"
"Phsss"
Riven took a sip, then spat blood onto the floor. "Still tastes like copper and regret."
He leaned back, wincing. "You're the merchant's dog. Just another paycheck with a pulse. You wanted the key."
"I was paid to retrieve something," Slade said, tone cooling. "Didn't care who had it. You were just a target."
"Then why save me?" Riven rasped, eyes sharpening. "Was it the hair? Be honest. It's the hair, isn't it?"
Slade didn't rise to the bait. "Because the second you opened that crypt, the island shook. You kicked over something bigger than either of us. And like it or not, you made the first move."
Riven chuckled dryly, then winced. "Y'know, if I had a beri for every time someone said that right before I died…"
"You're not dead," Slade said.
"Yet," Riven muttered.
Silence stretched, thick with heat and suspicion. Then Slade stepped forward.
"I've worked for Vortan for years. Thought if I kept my head down, maybe less people would die. But the more you give a man like that, the more he takes."
He met Riven's eyes. "Then you show up. Barefoot, burning, and belligerent. You survived something he's spent years trying to open. And now he's scared."
Riven narrowed his eyes. "You knew about the crypt?"
"Bits. Vortan's obsessed with it. He sent people down there. None came back. Whatever you unlocked, it's older than him. Older than this whole island."
Riven paused "If that key was so important why'd he give it to that fat fuck."
"He gave it to him to keep it on the island, the merchant was going to keep sending people down there while he was gone."
"For being a scholar, that was kind of stupid." Riven said.
Slade looked at Riven with an understanding gaze. "I know right..."
Slade leaned in slightly. "Anyway... I thought you were just another mouthy street rat. Now I think you're the only spark this island's got."
Riven stared at him. "So what, we're a buddy comedy now? 'Lone Wolf and the Fire Kid'? I call top billing."
"I'm not here to be your friend," Slade said. "I'm here to burn Vortan's empire down. And you? You're kindling."
Riven snorted. "Flattering. You always this good at motivational speeches?"
Slade's mouth twitched into the ghost of a grin. "Only on Tuesdays."
Riven's expression darkened. "I don't trust you."
"Good," Slade said. "I don't trust you either."
Riven exhaled slowly.
"…But I hate Vortan more."
Slade nodded. "Then we've got something to build on."
There was a short pause....
"You know those things can kill you right." Riven says pointing towards his cigarette.
"Bah! Thats just a rumor."
--------------------------------------
The fire had burned low, casting flickering shadows across floor
Riven sat shirtless on a stool, wings folded inward to show his sholder. His breath was shallow and face pale, while Slade sterilized a long blade over open flame. A bottle of rum sat nearby, for the wound, not for drinking. Well maybe for drinking.
"Well," Riven muttered. "This looks fun."
Slade didn't look up. "Seastone's still in your shoulder. It's poisoning your blood. Stalling your healing." He says taking a puff his cigarette.
"You sure you're qualified to play doctor?"
"No."
"Love the confidence. Really inspires trust."
Then the blade slid in.
Riven screamed, back arched, fists clenched. His wings spasmed as fire surged through his nerves like lightning on gasoline. He bit down so hard on a strip of leather he nearly tore it in two.
Slade worked fast. His expression was stone, his hands were efficient.
The shard came free with a sickening crunch, landing on a steel plate with a clink. It looked like obsidian dipped in night . unnatural and cold.
Riven collapsed forward, shaking, breath ragged.
"You'll heal now," Slade said, wiping the blade clean. "Slowly."
As he says this
Riven grunted. "Next time you want to dig around in my insides, at least buy me dinner first."
Slade glanced at the seastone. "Make no mistake. Whatever you awakened down there, it's not just power. It's a memory. It's ancient. And it remembers."
Riven looked up, face pale but eyes burning.
"So what do we do?"
Slade stood and moved to the window. Outside, Wyrmsreach stood high on that mountain.
"We train. We build. We hit him where it hurts. Secrets. Supplies. People. We start a fire that doesn't go out."
Riven stared into the glowing embers.
"And then?"
Slade turned, silhouetted by fractured moonlight.
"Then we light the whole damn island."
--------------------------------------------
Up in the manor, firelight licked across ancient Lunarian carvings. Lord Silas Vortan stood before a mural, a winged figure wrapped in sunfire. The merchant trembled behind him.
"He stole the key," the merchant whispered. "The boy… he opened it."
"And now he's missing," Vortan said, voice ice.
"S-Slade failed—"
Vortan turned slowly. "Slade was never meant to be in the picture, Flint."
He raised a pistol, with gold lining, and in the standard flint lock shape. A glyph glowed at the tip of the barrel.
"Vortan wai-"
POOM!
A searing beam of golden plasma tore from the barrel, shrieking through the air before it detonated the merchant's skull in a flash of heat and light, turning his head into a mist of red and bone like an overripe melon caught in a landmine.
Two guards faltered while stepping forward. Grabbing the remains of the Merchant and leaving.
Vortan didn't flinch. He turned back to the mural and traced the sunlit wings with reverence and hunger.
"The boy carries more than fire," he murmured. "He carries the past."
He smiled, slow and cruel.
"Let's see if he survives the future."