---
He did not sleep that night—not really.
Riven lay in his bunk while the echo of Vaelin's words replayed in his mind, not just the teachings but the tone behind them—like a blade sharpening another blade with every syllable. Around him, the Obsidian Vale breathed slowly, silently. Even in rest, it was alive. The moss-glow pulsed faintly with magical rhythm, like the beat of a heart buried beneath stone.
But it wasn't just Vaelin's voice that haunted him.
The vision had returned.
Lyra, barefoot, smiling in a way she never did now. Her red dress wet with rain as she spun in circles. Then the crack of thunder—or was it something worse? Her face turned toward someone—him? Kael?—and the joy was gone.
Was it real? Or some conjured memory warped by his Seal connection?
He closed his eyes, whispering her name once under his breath, and waited for sleep to carry him away. It didn't.
By the second morning in the Vale, Riven's bones felt heavier. Like each lesson wasn't just training, but unearthing something buried deeper than even he could reach.
Vaelin didn't wait for greetings. He simply stood, hand raised, eyes sharp.
"Today, we Burn."
Riven stepped into the ring. This time, his footing was lighter. His shoulders knew their place. Kindling had begun to settle into instinct.
"Show me what you learned," Vaelin said.
Riven closed his eyes. He breathed. The Flame Seal ignited faintly across his forearm, invisible to any but himself. And then, with a single step, he slashed through the air—not wide, not theatrical, but tight, disciplined.
The heat that followed lingered, but the flame didn't explode.
It curled.
Controlled.
Vaelin gave no praise. Only nodded.
Then gestured behind him.
A second figure stepped forward—taller, leaner than Vaelin, with pale hair braided down one shoulder and silver threads stitched into her sleeves. She carried no visible weapon, but her steps whispered the weight of one.
"Korra," Vaelin introduced, "will test your stance."
Test, not teach.
Riven tensed.
Korra bowed lightly. Her eyes were sharp as obsidian shards. She raised two fingers in the air, then closed them into a fist.
In an instant, the air shifted.
Riven barely managed to duck as her hand shot forward—not a punch, but a flick of pressure, like a wave of compressed heat. His blade came up out of reflex. Sparks flew.
They circled each other.
Riven moved first—slash, pivot, twist. The frames guided his motion.
But Korra danced between them like water slipping through fingers. Every strike that should've landed found air. Every dodge was a breath too late.
And then, without warning, she vanished.
Riven turned—too slow.
She stood behind him, hand pressed against the back of his neck, heat coiling around her fingers.
"Dead," she whispered.
He grunted. "You cheated."
"You hesitated."
She let him go.
The next hour was a blur of footwork, sweat, and humiliation. Korra never broke rhythm. She never spoke again. She simply pressed his mistakes into bruises until he bled truth.
By the time Vaelin called them off, Riven could barely hold his sword.
"You learn quickly," Vaelin admitted. "But your mind races faster than your flame. It must be slower. More patient."
Riven wiped blood from his lip. "My enemies won't wait."
"No. But your flame must."
That night, Kael returned. He looked more worn than before, though not from training.
"You saw her again," Riven said quietly.
Kael nodded, staring into the pale blue torch beside the bed.
"She spoke to me this time."
Riven stiffened. "Lyra?"
Kael turned toward him, eyes hollow. "No. The spirit inside her. It knew my name."
They fell into silence.
Eventually, Kael whispered, "How do you keep going?"
Riven didn't answer. He didn't know.
On the third day, they entered the Trial Field.
Vaelin gestured toward a circle of rune-inscribed stones. "This is the Mirror Ring. Your next lesson is not about motion or flame. It is about memory."
Another figure stepped from the shadows—taller than Vaelin, wrapped in white cloth that shimmered faintly with dreamlike magic. No eyes. No mouth. Only a smooth mask of soft silver.
"Myrrh," Vaelin said. "The keeper of echoes."
Myrrh didn't speak, only raised one hand.
Light flooded the circle.
And Riven stood before... himself.
But not exactly. This version of him was younger. Reckless. Wearing the same clothing from the Mirror Knight duel. Eyes filled with wild confidence, lips twisted in a half-smile.
The younger Riven moved first—direct, fast, burning with raw magic.
Riven responded instinctively—but hesitated.
The phantom landed a blow across his cheek, spinning him backward. Heat licked across his skin.
"He's faster," Riven growled.
"No," Vaelin said. "He is less afraid."
The duel lasted minutes, but felt longer. Riven barely managed to hold his own.
Each blow forced him to confront not just mistakes—but who he had been. Rash. Impatient. Angry.
It was exhausting in a way no swordplay ever had been.
When Myrrh lowered the illusion, Riven dropped to his knees.
"He's not me anymore," Riven said.
Vaelin crouched beside him. "But he is part of you. Control is not denial. It is acceptance."
That night, Riven sat in silence. The Vale felt colder.
And then—he tried something he hadn't before.
He held out a hand.
Breathed.
Not a Flame Seal.
Not magic.
Just breath.
The fire came.
A single flicker.
Just enough to light the end of a candle.
He watched it dance there.
Small.
But steady.
The first true sign that something inside him had changed.
He whispered to the flame.
"I'm not afraid of you anymore."
---