The torches sputtered in the stale, dry air of the underground vaults. Hidden deep beneath the central spire of the imperial keep, the Black Archive was a place spoken of in fearful whispers—a labyrinth of forbidden knowledge, forgotten pacts, and truths too dangerous for the light of day.
Riven's boots echoed along the stone corridor as he descended further, alone. Cassian still lay in recovery, the poison having left him pale and fevered, and the empire's reins—however temporary—rested squarely in Riven's hands. But tonight, he wasn't a regent or a prince consort. Tonight, he was a son chasing shadows of a father he barely remembered.
The great doors of the archive loomed ahead—sealed with obsidian runes and locks forged by bloodline. Riven pressed his palm to the sigil. Heat pulsed beneath his skin, magic recognizing magic. The locks groaned open.
The scent of parchment and dust, metal and ancient wax filled his lungs. He moved slowly, reverently, past shelves laden with scrolls, relics, and letters sealed in the crests of kings long dead. He passed the torture chair they used to extract confessions from spies. Passed the portrait of Emperor Daenor with eyes that followed you in the dark.
But it was the small casket tucked into a corner alcove that drew him—the one marked only with a symbol he hadn't seen since childhood: the twin falcons of House Varein, his birthright.
Riven opened it.
Letters. Dozens. Crisp vellum, sealed in red wax. Each addressed to a name he hadn't spoken in years: "To my son, Riven."
His breath caught.
He picked the first letter up, hands trembling, and broke the seal.
"If you're reading this, I'm dead—and they've kept the truth from you. But the blood in your veins is not innocent. Nor is it loyal..."
His father's handwriting was sharp and precise, a soldier's hand. But the contents... they shattered something in him.
The silence of the archive was no longer a balm—it was a storm waiting to break.
Riven's hands trembled as he unfolded the next page, the yellowed parchment crackling with the weight of decades. His father's handwriting was unmistakable—precise, elegant, every letter a blade.
> To the High Council of Vorthan,
In exchange for continued military supplies and covert assistance in the Reaper Campaign, I am willing to surrender the child—Riven. He will be raised in ignorance until his true purpose is needed. Should the imperial forces fall, he will be your gateway to the throne.
Riven's breath caught. The edges of the letter bit into his skin as he clutched it too tightly. The room swayed.
Cassian's voice broke through the roaring in his ears. "Riven?"
He didn't realize Cassian had followed him into the Archive. Riven turned, not hiding the tears slipping down his cheeks. "He sold me. To our enemies. I was... collateral."
Cassian crossed the space between them in two strides, cupping Riven's face, brushing a thumb across his cheek. "You are not defined by the lies of the past."
Riven let out a bitter laugh. "Then why do they feel like chains?"
Cassian pulled him into a fierce embrace. The parchment fell to the floor. "Because they were meant to bind you. But you, Riven—you were never meant to stay bound."
Their kiss was a desperate, emotional crescendo—a mix of comfort and fury. Riven clung to Cassian, the fire of betrayal searing through him and finding solace only in the man who had fought beside him, bled for him, desired him not for legacy, but for love.
Later, in the sanctity of their chamber, Riven unraveled completely.
The bed creaked as Cassian pinned him beneath his weight, lips tracing every inch of exposed skin, grounding him in the now. "You are mine," Cassian whispered, the words a brand. "Not theirs. Never theirs."
Riven arched into him, gasping as teeth grazed his neck. "Then take me. Make me forget everything but you."
Clothes were torn—urgently, clumsily. Riven's body moved in time with Cassian's, their rhythm not just one of lust but of claiming something sacred in each other.
Every thrust, every moan, every whispered plea was a vow—a reclamation of identity. Riven was no one's pawn. He was fire incarnate, and Cassian worshipped the blaze.
Their bodies tangled in sweat and heat, the sound of skin against skin echoing like drums of war. Riven cried out, not in pain, but in release—as though each orgasm tore another shackle from his soul.
When it was over, they lay entwined, breathless and bare. Cassian pressed a kiss to Riven's temple. "Whatever truths come, we face them together."
Riven nodded against his chest, voice hoarse. "Together."
Morning came. The letters were gathered and sealed in an iron box.
"We tell no one until we know what the Council knows," Cassian said.
Riven nodded, steel in his spine again. "Then it's time I paid my father's grave a visit."
Cassian arched a brow. "To mourn?"
Riven smirked, cold and beautiful. "To spit."
As they left the Archive, the shadows behind them thickened—watching, waiting.