The fires from the tower still smoldered.
Six days had passed since Riven Caelum, Ashborne, as the streets now whispered, had defeated Marine Lieutenant Marella Graves in a brutal, towering clash above Wyrmsreach. The spire had cracked and crumbled. Her body had been taken by the tides, or perhaps devoured by the inferno of divine flame. Either way, she had not been seen since, and the rebellion surged forward on wings of legend.
In those six days, everything had changed.
The slums had risen. The gated hill district now burned nightly, the marble manors of the rich turned to blackened skeletons. The workshop district had become the rebel stronghold, an armed maze of forges, barricades, and watchposts. Every smith and cobbler and apprentice in Talon now wielded stolen steel or crafted bombs from scrap. And Riven, barely recovered from his fight with Graves, now stood at the heart of it all.
Slade's smithy had become the command center. Rebels came and went in waves—some barely older than children, others grizzled dockhands and former slaves, all of them ready to die. Territory was split by alleys and iron. The Marines still held the eastern docks, the fortress keep, and a portion of the old manor hill. But the rebels had the markets, the forges, and the hearts of the people.
They were beginning to outnumber the Marines.
For the first time in living memory, the World Government was on the defensive.
And then the horns sounded from the sea.
It was dawn on the sixth day when the black sails appeared. One by one, ships emerged from the horizon like the spines of leviathans, long, sleek, and lined with cannons. At the center of the fleet stood a ship flying a white banner trimmed in pink, Captain Hina's personal vessel, or assumed personal vessel. She had arrived with a armada.
Slade stood beside Riven on the rooftop of the smithy, the rising sun painting their scars in gold.
"That ain't no trade fleet," Slade muttered, eyeing the formation. "They brought the hammer."
Riven, bandaged and bare chested, one wing still weak and sluggish, narrowed his eyes. "Let them come."
Slade stared at Riven, doubt starting to etch on his aged face, "This looks like something more..."
---------------------------------------------
The clash began at midday.
The first cannonball struck the bell tower, toppling it into the central plaza with a thunderous crack. The rebels swarmed from alleys, rooftop snipers loosing bolts at descending Marines. The once, bustling market had become a warzone, verturned stalls, blood in the gutters, and fire licking at canvas tents.
Riven was in the thick of it. Cutlass flashing, heat radiating from his skin in waves. He moved like flame itself, twisting, parrying, striking. Each slash of his blade left a trail of embers. A spear wielding Marine lunged at him, only to catch a blast of celestial flame to the chest, armor melting into flesh as he screamed and crumpled.
Slade fought at his back.
Elegant, vicious, precise. The old bladesman weaved between attackers like a dancer, his cutlass flicking out to hamstring, blind, or kill. He severed a rifleman's arms before spinning and impaling a swordsman right through the throat.
"Watch your right!" Slade barked, and Riven ducked as a pair of twin sabers carved the air above him.
Riven then jumped high into the air, wings flaring wide behind him in a blaze of heat and ash. Hovering above the street, he locked his gaze on the platoon of Marines below, faces pale. He raised one arm, palm outstretched, and it began to glow.
A piercing screech split the air as a sphere of radiant light swelled in his hand, no larger than his palm, yet pulsing with the fury of a newborn star. The glow intensified, white gold flames licking at the edges, until the air around it shimmered and warped.
"Nova!"
Then, without warning, he let it fly.
The orb streaked downward like a falling comet, leaving a trail of blazing brilliance in its wakeand the moment it struck, the world went silent.
A blinding flash.A thunderclap of heat.Then nothing.
The platoon was gone. Vaporized in an instant. Only scorched stone and molten metal remained where they once stood.
Riven dropped landing next to Slade who was engaging another marine, blocking another marines strike with his wings, shielding Slade from a third party attack.
They fought like brothers. Like fire and steel.
Bodies piled in the alleys. A rebel girl with a slingshot was blown apart by a grenade, her entrails painting the wall. A pirate turned rebel roared as he tackled a Marine into a bonfire, both of them screaming as their skin blackened. Blood sprayed across cobblestones. It soaked the roots of the Wyrmsreach fig trees, the ones that had stood for centuries.
But even as the rebels pushed the invaders back… a shadow fell.
A singular pressure. A weight like judgment itself.
He walked through the chaos like a ghost through a battlefield, tall, cloaked in dark green, white gloves, long coat trailing ash. Lord Silas Vortan had returned.
The man who ruled Talon Island. The World Government's little researcher. A scholar of ancient things.
He unslung a golden pistol from his hip.
Etched into its side was a burning glyph, some lost script that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. He aimed it toward the rebel front lines and fired.
The plasma shot tore through the air like a comet. It struck a barricade and detonated, not with fire, but with solar fury. Half a dozen rebels were atomized in an instant.
He drew a longsword with his other hand. A flawless, brutal thing.
Riven stepped forward, sweat gleaming on his shoulders, teeth bared. "You picked the wrong city, old man."
Silas' voice was calm. Almost mournful. "I warned you, Ashborne. You do not understand the fire you've stoked."
"No," Slade said, stepping beside Riven. "But we sure as hell are the fire."
It began
Riven came first, cutlass raised, wings flaring, flame surging from his heels. He clashed with Silas's sword, the impact sparking like metal striking the sun. Vortan met him with unnatural strength. His blade moved with scholar's precision and warrior's fury, his pistol blasting solar bolts with pinpoint aim.
"Come on ol fuck," Riven snarled, parrying hard. "Show that cold killer side."
"I kill so others don't have to," Vortan replied coldly. "What you call rebellion is just the beginning of another tyranny."
Slade flanked from the side, blade singing. Vortan spun, deflected, and slammed a boot into Slade's chest. The old man grunted, rolled, and rose with a second blade in hand.
Riven summoned solar flame to his palm and blasted it forward. Vortan raised his blade, absorbing the heat with a burst of glyph light. The metal glowed white hot, but he did not yield.
"You studied it?" Riven said surprised.
"I bled for it," Vortan snapped. "You think this island is your inheritance? I built it from ash."
"Then let's return it to ash!"
He surged again, cutlass blazing. Vortan matched him strike for strike. Sparks danced. Craters formed. Every blow rattled windows and cracked stone.
Slade rejoined, and for a moment they had him, a feint, a slash, a dive. Vortan stumbled. Slade's blade found his thigh, and blood flew. Vortan screamed, backhanded Slade into a wall, then swung wildly at Riven, who caught the sword with crossed flames.
"You're just a man," Riven hissed.
"And you're just a child," Vortan whispered. "Burning too bright. Too fast."
And then,
The Voice from the Sea
A voice like thunder echoed across Wyrmsreach.
"CITIZENS OF WRYMSREACH. STAND DOWN."
It projected from the fleet. Captain Hina's voice, amplified by a Den Den Mushi, rolled across the battlefield.
"You are surrounded. You have 10 ships trained on the city. You have one hour to surrender your leader, Riven Caelum. Otherwise, by order of the World Government, this city will be purged."
A pause, "Do not forfeit your lives! Give up!"
Silence fell. Even the flames seemed to pause.
Vortan's face twisted in rage as he stared down the street toward the open sea. "No. NO. You fools!"