A few days had passed since Solen had first stepped into the settlement. The desert lay behind him, but the trial was far from over. He had spent the time wandering the streets, trying to make sense of what he was supposed to do, where he was supposed to go. But in the end, he found nothing.
As time passed his stomach hungered for food. Nights were long and cold, and finding a place to sleep that wasn't the hard floor of an abandoned building proved nearly impossible without money.
Eventually, necessity forced him to take action. He had to take steps he had never imagined doing in the real world. Fingers that had once repaired delicate tools in his father's old workshop now slipped into pockets and bags, retrieving small coins, bread, or scraps of food. Each theft was quick, quiet, and efficient —it was a skill he never thought he would need to learn nor use.
"It's not wrong" he would mutter under his breath, after every successful theft. "This isn't real. Nothing here is real. Just a trial.. just survival." he would say to himself, trying to console his own moral compass.
The words offered little comfort, but they allowed him to push forward without guilt. He would have time later— time to think, time to plan, time to understand the purpose of this trial. For now, survival came first.
The shock of being trapped in the trial had long since faded and he was beginning to get used to it all.
Every step through the settlement reminded him that his strange gut that had guided him so far was still working, it subtly nudging him toward certain streets, certain buildings, even certain people. He didn't know why it guided him, only that obeying it felt necessary.
Solen wandered further through the settlement, letting the feeling guide his steps. The town, known as Halverin, was small but was fill with with merchants, travelers, and local craftsmen. Narrow streets in between which were stone buildings, on top of which were faded banners, likely of the various merchant guilds and organizations, which waved lazily in the warm wind. Every corner held the feel of dust and sweat, a constant reminder that life here continued despite the desert surrounding it.
He paused near a small plaza, noticing something that made him frown. A temple stood quietly at the edge, its stone walls cracked. Sculptures of gods stood at the entrance, they were made in poses that screamed at him- Divinity. They shouldn't be here, Afterall the gods were long dead, and no temple should still hold such images. Yet, here they were. He himself had now become a silent witness to a history that had been erased yet stubbornly lingered in the memory of the pale. It was just as he had thought earlier, it really was the era before the death of the gods.
'Weird… maybe this trial isn't just about surviving', he thought, letting his eyes wander over the settlement. Other buildings were more normal — markets selling grains, food, smiths hammering in open workshops, laundry being washed by the workers there.
Finally, Solen's wandering brought him to a small, untidy shop where papers were stacked in piles. Among them, a newspaper caught his eye. The text looked foreign — letters that made no sense — but for some reason, he could read it perfectly, each word sliding into his mind with clarity.
He flipped through it, skimming past some stories about distant lands, floods, and local politics, until an advertisement made him pause.
'A wealthy merchant caravan seeks skilled guards for an upcoming journey to the city of Valdrun. Payment guaranteed. Inquire at the northern plaza.'
Solen's heartbeat quickened. Somehow, just as he had known where Halverin lay, he now knew he was meant to take this job. Not consciously, not by logic — but through a silent, insistent certainty that had guided him since the trial began.
'This must be why I'm here' he thought, straightening his back. 'Not just to survive… but to move forward, to play my part in whatever this trial demands.'
With renewed purpose, he tucked the newspaper under his arm and began walking toward the northern plaza. The heat of the sun pressed down on him, but he didn't mind. For the first time since arriving in this strange desert world, Solen felt direction.
He was still confused, but at least he had found a light in darkness.
Both the trial and being chosen by the Pale was quite rare. Even in the real world, stories of it were whispered in the same tone one might use to speak of curses or miracles. Those who were chosen almost never returned. And if they did… they never spoke of what they saw.
No books recorded what truly happened inside a trial. Not even when he was in a school, when his family used to be alive, was he ever taught about such stuff. Everything about the Pale was half-remembered rumor and superstition.
Only those who had taken part in the trial and conquered it or those with powerful backgrounds, truly knew what happened inside. And they had certainly never bothered to tell someone like him — an orphan scraping through life.
Solen rubbed his temples, sighing.
He glanced at his hands which were trembling slightly. "I should've at least gained some abilities," he muttered. "The Pale did say something about Soul Devouring and Personal Insight, but how the hell do I even use them?"
He clenched his fists, focused, trying to will something to happen — to feel the power awaken, trying to summon something — anything. A spark, a glow, even a tremor.
Nothing. Just the same hot wind brushing against his skin.
"Damn it," he hissed under his breath. "If this is supposed to be a divine power, it's doing a great job hiding."
For just an instant, though, in his eyes, something glimmered — faint, yellow, and alive, though neither he nor anyone else had not noticed it.