CHAPTER 68: CHAPTER 67 - THE DEVOURING BLACK

Ashtoria closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if recalling something that wasn’t easy to remember. When she opened them again, the cold starlight of the night sky was reflected in her deep crimson irises. Her voice emerged slowly, clear and edged like a finely honed blade.

"If someone possesses a Fated talent... then after purple... the color turns to black."

Riven turned to her, his chest tightening without knowing exactly why.

"That black... isn’t just darkness. It devours everything. Light. Sound."

Her tone remained flat, emotionless—but that only made it feel more real. No embellishment. No drama. Only recollection.

"Those who witness it... lose their vision for a time. Their lungs fail to breathe. Their bodies tremble as if the blackness itself is a living void, hungry and absolute. And their fear isn’t born from understanding... but from the dreadful certainty that what they’re seeing shouldn’t exist."

She paused. Then calmly continued:

"Only then... does the black settle. Into a quiet, still black."

Riven stared at her.

The way she spoke, so direct and so precise, didn’t sound like something taken from a book or a tale. It was the way someone spoke when they had seen it with their own eyes.

He wanted to ask if she had seen it before, and if so, who had displayed such a talent.

But the words never left his mouth.

A quiet part of him had hoped, even if only a little, that the strange pulse during his own test might have meant something.

But there had been no void. No black. No trembling air.

Only red. Dull. Ordinary.

He exhaled slowly and looked down at the ground. A breeze drifted by, cool against his skin, brushing his hair aside like a whisper of the truth.

Beside him, Ashtoria turned away, her gaze drifting to the swaying grass beneath them. Silence sat between them like a third presence.

Then, without inflection, she said,

"Talent... cannot be changed."

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t pity.

Just fact.

But after a brief pause, her eyes returned to his—locking onto him with a quiet, icy resolve.

"...But what can I do... to change your mood?"

The words weren’t warm, but they were honest.

Not sweet. Not practiced. But real.

Riven’s heart stilled.

Where had she learned to speak like that?

And without realizing it, without planning to, the words slipped from his mouth like a confession:

"...Kiss me."

He barely registered what he’d said until it was too late.

Ashtoria didn’t blink. She simply stared, her eyes deep and unreadable, tracing every contour of his face.

Then, slowly, without a word, she leaned in.

Their breaths touched first, mingling between them. Riven caught her scent—roses and something richer, something uniquely hers, a scent that made his head light and his thoughts fall away.

Their noses brushed.

Their eyes locked.

And in the next moment, their lips met.

The kiss was soft at first. Careful. A gentle pressure that seemed to test the waters, as if neither of them fully understood how this moment had come to be.

But then...

It deepened.

Her lips, cool on the outside, warmed as they moved. Her kiss wasn’t shy—it was curious. Quiet. Intentional. As if she was discovering something hidden... something forbidden.

A second later, Riven felt her tongue slip forward: exploring, tracing, tasting him.

His hand rose instinctively, reaching toward her cheek, but halted. Not from hesitation, but because some fragile part of him feared that touching her would shatter the moment into something too overwhelming.

The kiss lingered. Grew. Deepened.

And in that moment, Riven stopped thinking altogether.

.

.

.

Several days passed since the talent test.

And within those days... everything shifted.

From the morning after the test, Lord Valderacht changed. No longer just a dignified host, the old noble seemed genuinely fond of Mira. Not in a possessive way, but like an old man who had stumbled across a granddaughter he never knew he wanted.

That morning, just like the two before it, he personally brought Mira a tray of her favorite sweets, fresh fruit, and herbal tea to the garden.

Seated beneath the wide canopy of an ancient tree, he patiently guided her through the basics of affinity control. He explained the concept of internal resonance and helped her channel energy through her veins with a clarity even the finest instructors rarely possessed.

Each time Mira succeeded, he smiled. Not as a teacher, but as someone watching a young star begin to shine.

Riven watched all of this from a distance.

He said nothing.

No jealousy. No complaint.

Just quiet.

He was glad Mira was happy. She deserved this, and more. But still... none of this was what they planned.

They were supposed to rest for a few days. A week, at most. Then move on to the capital and return to their quiet, forgettable lives. Blend into the crowd. Stay hidden.

But now?

Mira was adored by a noble family. And Riven... had fallen into the orbit of a woman he couldn’t understand.

Time passed slowly.

Nothing grand happened. And yet, everything felt like it was changing.

Riven rarely heard news from outside—only bits and pieces from passing servants.

The most terrifying of them?

The Fire Dragon, Agnithrax, had awakened.

It tore through Belmore like a storm of flame, leaving scorched villages and cities in its wake.

But worse than that... the Queen of Belmore had vanished.

After the Arkham incident, she was never seen again. Some claimed she perished. Others whispered of darker things—that she had disappeared of her own will, that she had embraced the same darkness she once commanded. Or that someone had finally killed her in secret... unable to watch her descent into madness any longer.

Riven listened to it all in silence.

There were things he wanted to ask Ashtoria... but he held his tongue.

It’s not always wise to ask questions about what one should never know.

Especially when those questions are directed at a woman like Ashtoria.

That afternoon, Riven stood once again in the back courtyard, alone before a tall, heavy boulder with an uneven, natural surface.

He had one goal: to cut it in half.

It had become his daily obsession.

But despite all his strength and skill, he failed.

Sweat dripped down his jaw as he brought the blade down with everything he had.

The clang of steel against rock rang through the air, sharp and unforgiving.

Still, the boulder refused to split.

"Damn it... stupid rock...!"

He snarled, teeth gritted, and swung again. And again.

"You cursed thing!"

"You damned pile of garbage!"

"... "

Until finally—

"Hey!"

A sharp voice rang out behind him—low and full of irritation.

Riven turned.

A knight in silver-plated armor bearing the Valderacht sigil stormed toward him, his expression twisted in frustration.

"Are you insulting me?! I’ve been holding it in, but this is too much! How dare you say those things to me?!"