The wind carried the smell of burning wood and scorched earth, threading through the war banners fluttering along the hills above Virelle—a rebellious town that had once glimmered with autonomy and pride. Now, it burned. Red-orange light lit the horizon, devouring rooftops and homes with brutal indifference. Screams had long died out. Only silence remained, the kind that coated lungs and soul alike.
Cassian stood at the ridge, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, pallid but upright despite the venom that had coursed through his blood just a week before. The poison had taken its toll—his frame had thinned, the sharp line of his jaw more hollow, but his eyes were alive. Sharp. Unyielding.
Beside him, Riven wore black steel, his arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight. The firelight painted his profile in sharp relief—too beautiful for a battlefield, too cold for compassion.
"It's done," said General Aleron, voice rasping. Ash dusted his hair and armor, and his eyes wouldn't meet Cassian's.
Cassian gave a slow nod. "Survivors?"
"Scattered. Most of the ringleaders are gone. The ones that remained... didn't surrender."
A pause, then: "They chose their fate."
Cassian's hand flexed at his side. Behind his stillness was something unraveling.
Riven turned his gaze toward him. "You ordered this."
It wasn't an accusation. Not quite.
Cassian didn't flinch. "They betrayed us. Killed our envoys. Poisoned our stores. Hid imperial soldiers from the capital."
Riven's eyes narrowed. "And the children?"
A beat. Then Cassian said, voice hoarse, "I didn't know."
A silence longer than the firebreak followed. It wasn't the kind of silence meant to be broken. It was the silence of something fracturing.
The smoke still clung to Cassian's hair when he returned to the war room. It was the scent of scorched wood, ash, and blood. He had watched the town burn—had turned his back when the pleas started, his jaw clenched and eyes dead to the sight of villagers driven from homes. Mercy, they'd begged for. But the rebellion had cost them that.
He stood at the head of the strategy table, hands braced against the carved obsidian surface, and stared at the sigils of every loyal region still standing. Cold fire simmered in his chest.
"Was it worth it?" Riven's voice broke through the room's silence.
Cassian looked up slowly. His mate stood in the doorway, no armor today, only a loose tunic and trousers. The silver pendant Cassian had given him glinted in the lamplight—a gift of love, now burdened with memory.
Cassian didn't answer. Not yet.
Riven stepped inside, shutting the heavy doors behind him. "They were scared, Cass. Starving. That was their rebellion."
Cassian's voice was low. "They executed one of our envoys. Hung his body in the square. Sent pieces of his armor back with his horse."
"They were desperate." Riven's eyes flared. "You've seen what starvation does to a city. You've seen what your Council has denied them."
Cassian's fingers curled around the edge of the table. "You're saying I should've let it go?"
"I'm saying... you should've remembered who you used to be."
The words sliced deep. Cassian's composure cracked. "Who I used to be doesn't get to rule. Who I used to be doesn't hold this fucking empire together with blood and fear and sacrifice."
Silence.
Then Riven took a step closer. "And who do I go home to when you burn away everything else?"
Cassian couldn't breathe. The fire, the people's screams, the stink of guilt on his skin—all of it drowned under the weight of that question. The man Riven loved—was he still in there?
Riven stood close enough now to touch. But he didn't.
Cassian's voice cracked. "Don't turn from me."
"I'm not." Riven's eyes glistened. "But I don't recognize this path you're on. And I'm afraid that if I follow you too far down it... I won't recognize myself either."
Cassian reached for him—desperate, aching—but Riven stepped back.
"I need space," he whispered.
"Riven—"
"You burned that town, Cass. I can't pretend it didn't burn a part of us too."
He left without slamming the door. The quiet click echoed louder than any shout could have.
---
Later that night, Cassian sat alone on the balcony outside his quarters. The stars above blinked indifferent. Below, the remnants of smoke drifted from the far hills.
He had thought the throne would be the hardest burden. He hadn't known that losing Riven's closeness would be what unmade him.
Footsteps approached—soft, hesitant.
It was Deyra, one of the empire's youngest strategists and the daughter of the burned town's former magistrate. She knelt beside him, not as a subject but as someone who, too, had lost family in the fire.
"I don't forgive you," she said plainly.
"I don't ask it."
"But I understand. And I think Riven does too. He just wants you to choose differently next time."
Cassian didn't respond. Couldn't.
But he listened.
And maybe, in the cracks of guilt and loss, something new could still grow.