Chapter 2: Alone
The beef sizzled softly in the pan, its surface searing to a deep, rich brown as fat slowly rendered and pooled beneath it. The aroma filled the small house—warm, savory, and heavy with promise—drowning out the smell of old wood and smoke. As Riven turned the meat, juices spilled free, hissing against the iron, carrying with them a scent so rich it made his stomach ache with hunger.
When it was done, the roast rested on a cracked wooden plate, its surface glistening, the edges crisp while the center remained tender and steaming. He cut into it slowly. The blade slid through with ease, releasing a rush of fragrant steam and revealing flesh cooked to a perfect pink. Each bite was dense and satisfying, the flavor deep and comforting—simple, honest food, earned through blood and cold and solitude.
For a moment, as he ate, the world felt quieter.
Riven felt peace, pain, and longing all at once.
A boy his age should have been eating with his family—laughing, talking around the dinner table, each of them sharing the small events of their day. Riven yearned for that warmth, for that bond he had never known.
Instead, his hatred grew.
Hatred toward the people. Toward this house. Toward the world itself.
Yet all he could do was sit in silence and eat.
He didn't complain about the food—quite the opposite. It was delicious. Roast beef was a luxury, something usually reserved for the wealthy or those of noble renown. By eating like them, Riven felt a quiet satisfaction bloom in his chest, and his imagination ran wild.
He closed his eyes, savoring every bite that passed his lips. The fire crackled softly, sending sparks into the air, while owls hooted somewhere beyond the walls, calling through the cold night.
After what felt like an eternity, Riven finally finished his meal. He cleaned the table, washed the plate, and dried his hands before walking over to the paintings hanging on the wall.
A wistful smile crossed his face.
He pressed his hands together in a quiet, prayer-like gesture.
"May your dreams be sweet," he whispered. "So long… golden-agers."
Riven stood still for a full minute before slowly raising his head and opening his eyes.
A loud knock slammed against the door, sending a sharp jolt through his eardrums. He turned toward the sound, a small frown forming on his face. At this hour, no villager would be awake. Everyone knew the dangers of the night.
Which meant there were only two possibilities.
A knight of the Church… or a creature that belonged to the dark.
Riven reached for his sword.
Moving carefully, he approached the door and called out, "Who's there? Identify yourself."
No answer came—only the mournful howl of the wind outside.
Several seconds passed.
His grip tightened as sweat rolled down his forehead. Crossing a Church knight would bring nothing but trouble. They wielded strange, inhuman powers, things far beyond normal men.
"This is your second warning," he shouted. "Identify yourself. Now."
Silence again.
Then the door began to open.
The hinges creaked loudly, the sound scraping against his nerves. Riven took two steps back and raised his sword, holding it in front of him as he braced for an attack.
The door swung fully open.
The wind surged inside, howling louder than before. Somewhere in the distance, the owls fell silent all at once.
But there was nothing there.
"…What is this?" Riven muttered. "A prank by some kids?"
He stepped forward to close the door—
—and froze.
A piece of paper drifted downward, as if it had appeared from thin air.
Riven moved instantly, snatching it from the air before it could touch the ground.
The object in his hand was a letter.
It was sealed shut with wax—intricately decorated, far too complex and detailed for anything meant for someone like him. Riven's confusion deepened. He had never received a letter in his life. Surely this had been sent by mistake. Intended for someone else.
And yet…
His eyes lingered on it.
Curiosity crept in despite himself. Maybe it really is for me, he thought. But from who? And why?
Riven scratched the back of his head and let out a low sigh.
"Wouldn't hurt to take a look."
Carefully, he unsealed the wax, taking great care not to damage it. The seal came apart cleanly. Inside the envelope lay a single piece of paper, folded neatly.
He pulled it out and unfolded it.
The message was short.
Your parents are in Lasseo.
S.
Riven stared at the words, his mind refusing to process them.
"What the…?"
Then it happened.
Without warning, his body gave out. Riven collapsed to the floor, writhing as if possessed, his hands clawing at the dirt. A violent heat ignited inside him—searing, overwhelming, as though his blood itself had begun to boil. Every movement only intensified it, waves of agony rippling through his body.
Riven was no stranger to pain.
But this—
This was something else.
Thoughts tried to claw their way into his mind, but only one remained, loud and clear.
I'm going to die.
Minutes passed—an eternity of suffering—before the heat finally began to fade. The pain ebbed, leaving his body trembling and drenched in sweat. Slowly, his vision returned. He could move his fingers again.
Shakily, Riven stood.
He reached for the letter once more, dread now etched across his face.
The moment he lifted it, gray smoke began to rise from the paper. In the next heartbeat, the smoke ignited. Fire consumed the letter instantly, reducing it to ash that drifted through the open door and vanished into the wilderness beyond.
Riven stood frozen, staring at the empty space where it had been.
Then he felt it.
An irritation on the underside of his left wrist.
He scratched at it with his right hand—and froze when his fingers traced something raised, something carved into his flesh.
Slowly, lifting his arm.
Etched into his skin, burned deep as a scar, was a single letter.
S.
Riven stood there in disbelief, convinced his eyes must be deceiving him.
But it was real.
The mark wasn't an illusion born from pain or exhaustion. It was clear—bold and unmistakable. A large S burned into the underside of his wrist.
After staring at it for several long minutes, Riven finally turned away and returned to his bed. The withering wooden frame looked as though it might collapse at any moment, held together by little more than splinters and stubborn hope. And yet, to him, it felt like a royal bed—warm, familiar, safe.
He lay down and raised his arm above him, keeping the mark within his sight.
Questions flooded his mind.
What was that letter? How had it appeared? Why did it burn away into nothing? None of it made sense. Every answer he tried to grasp slipped through his fingers.
But the words themselves refused to leave him.
Your parents are in Lasseo.
His breath caught.
"My parents… in Lasseo?" he whispered. "Do I even have parents?"
Until now, he had never questioned where he came from. His past—his origin—had never mattered. Whether he had once had a family, or even a life before the village, was something he had never allowed himself to think about.
Now, the thought struck him like thunder.
With it came something unfamiliar.
Hope.
What if I'm someone of renown?
What if I'm not nameless?
Images formed in his mind—people speaking to him without fear, meeting his gaze, treating him as human. His chest tightened, and his eyes began to shine with quiet excitement.
For the first time in his life, the future felt… possible.