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 body, tied to the belt, as he walked across the narrow alley. The light inside the lantern flickered like it was barely struggling to stay lit. It was in a way just like him, barely able to survive.
He'd spent the entire day at the market, trying to sell whatever scraps were left from his father's old workshop. A few broken parts and some rusted tools that still smelled of grease. After selling the scraps he'd managed to earn just enough money to buy food for the week and still not enough to pay even a tenth of his debts.
The debt collectors would come soon. They always did.
As Solen walked further into the alley, he exhaled through his nose, sighing out loud. "Three days of trying to find something sellable at dad's workshop and what do I have to show for it?" he muttered, kicking a stone down the street. The coins he'd managed to collect together from selling the old scraps were just enough to barely survive. And if the collectors came knocking tonight, well.... then he might have to really start selling the furniture at his place. Or 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 just like fog, but everyone knew better. It was not ordinary. It was alive— moving and hungering. It was as if it was always looking for preys.
As he was about to reach near his place, he once again looked towards the pale. He exhaled through his mouth and then sighed. "Haah. Maybe I should just walk into the pale. 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 barely standing, it was the last thing his parents left behind before they had died.
He still remembers that night very clearly.
Solen was only twelve when the Reflections had come. They were creatures that looked like humans from far away yet when you came close, you knew that you were wrong. The feeling they had given was unnatural, cursed even. They had moved like shadows with teeth who were hungry for more than just 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 had arrived. They pushed the Reflections back with their power, 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 the walls of the city, like a predator waiting to for it's prey, and Solen was left alone with the echoes of nightmares and 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 made 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."
Still feeling cold and needing some lighting in the dark room, he lit a candlelight.
The candlelight illuminated 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 just a 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 his own eyes in them — the same sharpness, the same restless edge.
He then 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 same shade as his. He traced his hand over his hair, a bitter twist of nostalgia tightening 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. It was less of a chuckle and more a sigh at his own misfortune.
"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 skills 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.