Chapter Thirty-One: The Fire Walkers
"It was not the sword that began the war—but the first step into the fire."
Dawn came like a blade across the horizon—sharp, golden, and unrelenting.
The army stood beneath it, arrayed across the ridges and trails that wound down into imperial lands. Clans that had warred for generations now stood shoulder to shoulder. Banners stitched with rebellion symbols flapped in the cold wind, stitched from scraps of bloodied cloth and the remnants of empires long buried.
Kael looked out at them all—at what they'd built.
From ash and exile, a storm had risen.
Riven stood beside him, his cloak trailing, hair windswept, face carved with resolve.
"This is it," he murmured. "No turning back."
Kael reached for his hand. "Then let's walk forward."
The descent from the mountain was quiet at first.
No horns. No clashing steel.
Just boots on frost-hardened earth and the rumble of carts loaded with crude weaponry and stolen supplies. Elan directed with brutal efficiency, ensuring the warbands didn't clash over petty grievances. Maedra marched at the front, her bone armor gleaming like ivory fangs.
They crossed into the valley by noon. The first imperial outpost was ahead.
And it was already burning.
Smoke curled up into the grey sky.
The rebels froze—expecting a trap. But when they approached, they found only bodies. Soldiers. Scattered like leaves. No sign of who had struck first.
Then came the message.
Carved into the wooden wall of the garrison, painted in blood:
"We heard the fire was coming. We lit the way."
Riven shivered. "They're rising faster than we thought."
Kael stared at the scorched wall.
And smiled.
By nightfall, they reached the bridge—the only path wide enough to march the full force into the lowlands without winding through narrow, exposed gorges.
But the bridge had been collapsed.
Imperial flags still fluttered on the far cliff, mocking from the other side.
Kael paced. "If we take the gorge, we'll be vulnerable. Archers could pick us off for hours."
"We could try rebuilding the bridge," Elan offered. "But it'd take days."
"Or we take it back by fire," Riven said.
All eyes turned to him.
He pointed to the stone base of the bridge. "The lower supports are still intact. Get me across. I'll ignite their munitions stash from inside."
Kael's jaw tensed. "That's suicide."
Riven looked at him. Quiet. Unshaking. "It's war."
Kael shook his head. "No."
But Riven stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You told them you'd burn the empire to the ground. Let me be the match this time."
It was dark when Riven made the crossing.
A rope line, strung tight by the Ironroot scouts, stretched across the gorge. Wind howled. Below, the river crashed like a thousand screams.
Kael watched every movement, breath held like prayer.
Riven reached the other side.
And vanished into shadow.
It took ten minutes.
Ten minutes of silence, of wind, of nothing but the breath of the earth.
Then came the explosion.
Flames erupted from the far side, tearing through the barricades. Screams followed—imperials caught unprepared, smoke billowing high into the sky.
And through it all, Riven ran back across the rope line—smoke in his lungs, blood down his side, but alive.
Kael caught him the moment his boots hit the dirt, pulling him in like the sky itself would try to steal him away.
"You're insane," Kael muttered, voice shaking.
Riven grinned, coughing. "And you love me for it."
With the bridge cleared, the rebellion surged forward.
Torchlight spread like wildfire.
And behind them, the mountains burned with every step.