The mist was thick that evening — thicker than usual, if that was even possible.
Solen Veynar pulled his coat tighter and adjusted the half-broken lantern hanging around his arm, as he walked around the narrow alley. The soul-light inside the lantern flickered like it was struggling to breathe, it was in a sense, just like him.
He'd spent the entire day bargaining at the market, trying to sell whatever scraps were left from his father's old workshop. A few broken gears, some rusted tools, and memories that still smelled of oil and sweat. He'd managed to earn just enough to buy food for the week… and still not enough to pay even a tenth of his debts.
The collectors would come soon. They always did.
As Solen walked further, he exhaled through his nose, sending a thin cloud of breath into the chill evening air. "Three days scavenging, and what do I have to show for it?" he muttered, kicking a loose cobblestone down the street. The coins he'd managed to scrape together from selling old scraps were just enough to barely survive. And if the collectors came knocking tonight, well… he'd have to really start selling furniture. Maybe even the house that his parents had left him.
Solen stopped at the corner of the street, eyes trailing towards the fog of the Pale far beyond the city walls. It looked like fog, but everyone knew better. It was alive — whispering, moving, hungering.
He exhaled through his mouth and then sighed. "Haah. Maybe I should just walk into it. Save everyone the trouble." The mist didn't answer. It never did.
By the time he reached his house, his fingers were already digging through his pocket for the key, stiff from the cold and the day's work. The old house was still standing, barely — the last thing his parents left behind before they had died.
He still remembers that night clearly.
Solen was only twelve when the Reflections had came. They moved like shadows with teeth, silent until they struck, and hungry for more than flesh. His parents had tried to shield him, shouting and swinging whatever tools they could find, but the creatures were merciless. One by one, they were dragged into the mist, screaming, until only Solen remained, hidden and trembling behind a stack of crates. By the time he dared to crawl out, the mist had swallowed the street, and with it, his family.
It was only later that the Vanguard arrived. They pushed the Reflections back with practiced precision, driving the mist and its horrors beyond the city walls. By the time they left, the street was silent again, the Pale hovering just outside like a waiting predator, and Solen was left alone with the echoes of nightmares and the cold, and a hollow pain of loss in his heart.
Since that night, the world had felt colder, emptier, and more dangerous than he could ever remember.
Remembering that cold night, Solen couldn't help but shiver. Still thinking about it, he made his way inside. Inside the house, it was quiet. Too quiet. No laughter, no arguments, no smell of his mother's burnt food, no dad reading newspaper. Just dust, debt, and him.
He dropped the small bag of coins on the table and sank into a chair that made a squeak. "A week's worth of food," he muttered, "and a month's worth of problems."
The candlelight danced over the cracked walls, highlighting old family portraits. The empty space was where his family's largest photo used to hang. He'd sold that frame months ago for a single loaf of bread.
His father's stern gaze stared back at him, eyes a shade of violet so deep it almost seemed to glow in the dim candlelight. For a moment, he thought he could see himself in them — the same sharpness, the same restless edge.
He glanced at his mother's portrait beside it. Her hair was black as midnight, falling softly around her tired smile. Her hair, they looked just the shame shade as his. He traced his hand over his hair, a bitter twist of nostalgia tightening in his chest.
"Purple eyes, black hair," he muttered under his breath, almost to himself. "Some things don't leave you… no matter how much the world tries."
He rubbed his hands, trying to shake the cold from his bones, and let a bitter, humorless chuckle escape — more a sigh at his own misfortune than amusement.
"Guess I inherited my father's eyes, mother's hair, and everyone's debts."
The words came out smoother than his thoughts. He had a quick tongue, always did — good enough to talk his way out of trouble, not good enough to talk himself into a better life.
His handwriting was a mess, his reading worse. School ended for him the day his parents didn't wake up. Since then, the streets had been his teacher, and survival his final exam.
Still, he wasn't stupid. Just… practical.
Solen stood, pacing the room. "If I sell the house," he murmured, "that'll cover the main loan. Maybe even the interest. Then what? " He looked around at the chipped furniture, the peeling paint, the ghosts of a better time. "Then I get to live in the streets like a proper genius."
He smirked, but it didn't last long. The silence pressed against him again — heavy, suffocating.
Finally, he sighed and leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. "Just one stroke of good luck," he whispered. "That's all I need. Is that too much to ask?"
The mist outside shifted.
For a moment, it was as if the world held its breath. The lantern on his belt pulsed once — a dull, heartbeat glow.
Then a voice, soft and distant, echoed in the back of his mind:
"Dormant soul detected."
"The Pale chooses."
Riven's eyes snapped open. The room had gone silent — unnaturally so. Even the candle's flame stood frozen mid-flicker.
"Initiating Trial 0."
"What the—"
The last thing he saw was the house around him warping, melting into white mist — and then, nothing.