Shards of stained glass danced in the air like deadly confetti, catching the last rays of light as the sun began to die beyond the shattered horizon. Pillars groaned under the weight of ancient hymns and forgotten gods. The smell of blood and incense clashed in the air—thick, iron-sweet, and sacred.
Arielle stood at the eye of the storm, her white priestess robes torn and fluttering like war banners around her. Her palms glowed with golden light, veins alive with holy power. Her eyes—once soft—now burned with divine fury and desperate purpose.
The boy lay before her, limbs convulsing, mouth frothing as a black sigil twisted across his chest. Possession.
"By the light of the First Flame," she chanted through clenched teeth, "by the breath of the Oracle, by the bones of the Chosen—leave this body!"
Her voice rose over the wind. Symbols spun around her, ancient glyphs drawn in blood and spirit.
The cathedral responded—walls shuddering, lanterns bursting with golden fire, the very air bending around her power.
Still, it wasn't enough.
The demon was already leaving, dragging the boy's soul with it.
"No—no!" she cried, fingers trembling, eyes stinging. "You don't get to take him! Not while I still breathe!"
Arielle reached for the forbidden scroll, tucked into the folds of her robe—a last resort no priestess was meant to touch. Not unless they were ready to pay a price that could never be undone.
She slammed her palm down, blood meeting ancient ink.
The wind stopped.
Time stilled.
And the name tore through the space between worlds like a blade through heaven.
"Riven."
The summoning circle ignited. The cathedral plunged into shadow.
Then—he arrived.
No roar. No hellfire. No spectacle.
Just stillness.
He stepped through the veil like he was walking into a room he already owned.
Tall. Impossibly poised. A black coat flowed behind him like it was made of shadow itself. His skin was pale, untouched by mortal sun. And his face—
inhumanly beautiful.
Chiseled like a statue from some long-forgotten god. But it was his eyes that stole the breath from her lungs. They weren't dark.
They were void.
Not absence. Not depth.
Nothing.
Eyes that had seen the beginning and would watch the end without blinking.
Arielle's soul screamed. Her body didn't.
She stood tall.
He looked at her—only her. The summoning circle still glowing around him, untouched, unbothered.
And then he spoke.
"You summoned me," he said, calm and cold, like she had merely interrupted his walk through eternity.
Arielle's jaw tightened. "I didn't know— I mean—" She took a breath. Straightened. "I need your power. To save him."
Riven glanced at the dying boy. Then back to her.
"Life in exchange for what?" he asked, precise. Measured.
"Name your price."
His head tilted slightly, raven-dark hair falling across his brow.
"A kiss."
Her lips parted. "What?"
"Not of flesh," he said. He stepped forward, crossing the circle without resistance.
"Of soul. A seal. A bond."
The force should have stopped him. It didn't.
Her breath hitched. "Who are you?"
He took one more step.
Too close. Too quiet. Too composed.
"I am called many things," he said. "But the one that matters is this: I am the thing your kind was warned never to wake."
Arielle's hand darted to the blade at her side.
He didn't flinch.
She hated that.
"I could strike you down," she said, not quite convincing even herself.
"You could try." He didn't smile. "But it wouldn't change the terms. One kiss. And he lives."
The cathedral groaned. The light around them dimmed as if the very world recoiled.
Arielle didn't step back. She wanted to. But she didn't.
Because she was a priestess. She was chosen.
She was not afraid.
He studied her, gaze sharp. Amused. "Interesting," he said at last. "You don't tremble."
"I don't fear things that don't belong in this world," she said, voice hard."Your presence is a corruption."
"And yet," he said, stepping forward just to test the edge of the containment sigil, "you called me. A holy girl with blood on her lips, whispering my name like a prayer."
"I was trying to save a soul!" she hissed.
"Liar." His smile was cruel. "You were trying to feel something."
"Then perhaps your kind has grown arrogant."
"I'm not my kind," she spat.
A pause. Then—
He smiled.
Small. Barely there. But enough to shift the air.
"You hate me."
"Everything about you," she whispered.
His voice lowered, not in volume—but in gravity.
"Tell me, priestess... What is love?"
Her throat closed.
He stepped forward, slow, deliberate. The circle cracked under his feet like it was made of ash.
"If I opened your skull," he murmured, "would I find it there?"
He moved closer.
"If I sliced open your holy throat, would love pour out with the blood?"
Her heart thundered.
Still, she did not move.
Riven studied her, cold and eternal. "I've seen a thousand empires fall in the name of love. Wars. Worship. Sacrifice." He leaned in. "And yet... it remains the most fragile thing mortals cling to."
She said nothing.
He raised his hand, touched two fingers to her lips—so softly, it burned.
"A kiss," he reminded her. "And he lives."
Arielle turned to the boy. His chest had gone still.
She turned back.
"Fine."
He leaned forward—not fast, not forceful—just… certain.
Their lips met.
Not passion. Not warmth.
Power.
Something ancient sparked between them. Her soul jerked inside her body as if trying to flee. Light and shadow collided, ripping through the cathedral in a silent storm.
Then silence.
The boy gasped behind her.
And Riven stepped back, gaze unreadable.
"It is done," he said.
But before fading, he added one final thought:
"Your soul tastes like fire. I wonder how long it will take before you burn yourself."
And then he vanished.
Leaving Arielle standing alone, power flickering along her skin, mouth tingling with something far too close to sin.
She looked at the boy. Alive.
She had won.
And yet—
she felt marked.
Not in body. Not in name.
But in a place no holy water could ever reach.
Arielle stood in the silent wreckage of the cathedral, the aftermath of her decision clinging to the walls like smoke. The boy was alive—his breathing steady now—but the victory tasted of ash.
Her hands, once glowing with divine light, trembled at her sides.
The scroll still lay open on the floor, its ink burned into the stone. Symbols older than the kingdom itself pulsed faintly, refusing to fade. They didn't belong here.
Neither did he.
She had first read about Riven when she was eleven.
Back then, she was a child in training—headstrong, curious, far too quick to question things others accepted as truth. Orphaned during a border raid, she had been found in the ruins of a monastery, untouched, her cries echoing through the halls.
They said she was protected by the divine.
They said she had been chosen.
At thirteen, she memorized entire holy texts. At fifteen, she could channel energy from the Sanctum without a conduit. At seventeen, she was anointed as a priestess of the First Flame—a role earned by only one in every century.
The flame she served was not just a symbol. It lived in her blood, a burning promise of purity and power. She was light incarnate—her heart bound to righteousness, her soul sealed by vow.
But no amount of devotion erased her curiosity.
And no curiosity burned more deeply than the Scroll of the Severed Path.
Locked within the Vaults beneath the Sanctum, it was whispered of only in warnings. A relic not of heaven or hell—but the space between. It held the names of beings the gods themselves had abandoned. Beings that could not be banished, only bartered with.
Riven was the first name inscribed in it.
The day she read that name, her blood chilled.
The day she used it, she stopped being innocent.
Now, the scroll was open. And the price had been paid.
She had summoned something not meant for the living.
She had kissed it.
Arielle dropped to her knees in front of the broken altar. She couldn't even feel her holy magic anymore—just a strange current humming beneath her ribs. Not cold. Not warm. Just… there.
Like the memory of a hand pressed to her mouth.
"Your soul tastes like fire," he had said.
She shivered.
Then the cathedral doors burst open.
Two elder priests stormed inside, followed by soldiers in white armor engraved with flame emblems. One of them—High Priest Malric—stopped dead when he saw the broken sigils, the boy breathing, and the remnants of a power that didn't belong to their world.
"What have you done?" he breathed.
Chapter Two: The Cost of Power
Arielle rose slowly.
"I saved him."
"You used it." His voice cracked like dry stone. "You used the scroll."
The other priest fell to his knees. "The seal is broken. The name has been spoken. She's… tainted."
Arielle said nothing.
She didn't need to defend herself. Not for saving a life.
But when Malric stepped forward, his eyes full of pain—not rage—it struck harder than punishment.
"You were our brightest star, Arielle. Our sacred flame." His voice softened, like a father's. "And now…"
"Now I'm still standing," she said quietly. "And he is breathing. Is that not what we are called to do?"
"No," he said. "We are not called to play god. Not with him. Not with Riven."
The name hung in the air like blasphemy.
Guards moved toward her.
"I'm not possessed," she said.
"But you are changed." Malric stepped closer. "And the Order will see it. The Flame judges us not just by our actions… but by the power we invite into our souls."
Arielle didn't flinch.
"I made the choice no one else dared to make. I saved a life."
"You made a pact," he whispered. "And you don't even know what it will cost."
He turned to the guards. "Take her. The Flame will decide."
As hands closed around her arms, Arielle lifted her chin. Her body ached. Her soul ached. But her fire did not go out.
Let them judge.
Let them curse her.
Let them fear her.
Because whatever was bound to her now—whatever shadow that kiss had sewn into her soul—she would face it.
But she would never regret saving him.
Even if it meant she'd just damned herself.