Soren's first memories were gray.
The low, sagging ceiling above his bed. The splintered wood that groaned at the smallest shift of his weight. The thin blanket that smelled faintly of mildew, never warm enough to hold back the cold that seeped into his bones. And always, the hands—bony and rough, yet steady—of the old woman who lifted him. Her face was carved with lines, her eyes the same tired gray as the room itself.
The place he called home was narrow and plain, a tall frame of wood stacked three floors high. Corridors tight as tunnels. Rooms few and small. His was on the first floor, where he spent most of his earliest days, leaving only when the woman carried him. Her arms were wiry but firm, never trembling, and whenever she gathered him close, he knew what came next. Food.
Three times each day she fed them. Sometimes stew, sometimes porridge. Always the same dull color, the same dull taste, though she named them differently each time. She rarely smiled. Her voice was even, low, and chill, a tone that reminded Soren of the cold that clung to his skin even under layers of cloth.
She was not alone in the house. The corridors and stairwells were never still, always ringing with children's voices—high, shrill, or hushed and sweet. They called her Marta. Sometimes they defied her, pushing food aside, and earned her sharp displeasure. Soren never disobeyed. Something in him wanted to be good, to finish every last spoonful. Perhaps that was why Marta's eyes rested more kindly on him than on the others.
Two faces mattered more than all the rest. Leevi, the tallest boy, who slept beside him in the crowded bed. Seppo, smaller and thinner, who shared the same creaking mattress. The three of them, crammed together in the dark, breathing each other's breath, became the truest shape of home.
Everyone called him Soren, but Leevi and Seppo called him brother. He liked the sound so much that he began to call them the same. Warmth flickered in him when Leevi carried him down the stairs instead of Marta, or when Seppo laughed, chasing the others through the yard with a stick for a sword.
The word stayed soft and good in his mouth, until he learned what it meant. Then the sweetness dulled. Not a wound, not sharp, but a slow, sinking ache.
They were all small and slight, yet their differences showed in quiet ways. Leevi's hair fell in fine, straight strands of golden walnut. Seppo's was ash-blond, the shade of weathered wheat, with a gentle wave that never yielded no matter how short Marta trimmed it. Soren's was unlike either—plain and black, falling loosely across his brow or brushing the sides of his face when he swept it back.
Their eyes, too, each held a distinct light: Soren's a rare gold, bright as molten sunlight set into crystals; Leevi's a clear teal, like the surface of a summer lake; Seppo's a warm hazel that shifted like fallen leaves stirred by the wind.
And while Seppo and Leevi's skin was pale—white as the snow drifting endlessly beyond the windows—Soren's carried a warmer olive tone beneath.
He thought little of these things at first. Every child in the house looked different. Different noses, different eyes. To him, that was simply how people came into the world, one face never like the next. He never said it aloud, and so no one ever corrected him.
It was only in town, at the fairs, that doubt crept in. Among the stalls, Soren saw children whose features echoed their parents. Faces paired with faces, the same shapes, the same colors. He tugged at Marta's sleeve.
"Why do those boys look so alike?" he asked.
"Because they're brothers," she said.
"But Leevi and Seppo are my brothers, and we don't look the same."
For once, Marta faltered. Her mouth tightened. She did not answer there in the noise of the square. Later, in her room, she sat him down.
Her words came halting, blunt, as if pulled from somewhere she preferred to leave closed. She told him about the morning she found him at her door, about how she had found the others the same way. What parents were. What an orphanage meant. What it meant to be an orphan.
"Your skin isn't even like ours in Viremont," she said. "Your parents must have come from another part of Nivara."
Soren accepted the words in silence.
When he slipped back into bed, Leevi and Seppo were already asleep. He lay between them without a sound. The mattress felt harder beneath him, the room darker.
He wished Marta had not spoken. He had been content with the world as it was. A crowded house, a woman who fed them, brothers who laughed in the yard. To know there were parents somewhere, who had chosen not to keep him, gnawed at him in a way hunger never had.
And yet, the thought of a home with only two adults, with only one or two children, felt stranger still. Here there were always voices, always hands to share the cold. The food was thin, meat scarce, bowls filled mostly with roots, but to Soren it was enough.
By morning, he still called Leevi and Seppo brother. And he meant it.
Time moved on quietly, until the year Soren turned six—old enough at last to stand in the ration line for his own share of grain. That was also the first time he heard the Town Master's speech.
The old man appeared on the raised platform above the crowd. His white fur coat gleamed, rich and soft, a striking contrast against the dark, threadbare coats of the townsfolk below him. His voice, when he spoke, carried a rehearsed weight of regret, his expression carefully arranged in sympathy. Yet to Soren's young ears, there was something hollow in his tone.
The message was straightforward: the southern harvests had failed that year, and so the capital had decreed that rations would be cut in the months ahead.
"Didn't he say the same thing last year?" Leevi, sixteen then, muttered under his breath. He was standing just ahead of Soren in line. "If it isn't broken wagons, it's failed harvests. He ought to change the excuses once in a while."
"Watch your mouth," Marta hissed at him, glaring back over her shoulder. "Do you want the Town Master to hear you? Trouble for one of us is trouble for all. This orphanage is already out of favor enough."
"But it's always the same story," Leevi pressed, his tone edged with bitterness. "Either he's scheming something, or the capital's useless at their job. They've got to do better. We can't even make a proper porridge anymore. The little ones cry that they're hungry before bed. I'm sick of watery roots in a pot."
Marta's face hardened. "Harvests fail by the will of the weather. We don't know the hardships they face in the south. We must endure, and be thankful for what we're given."
Leevi only exhaled a sharp sound through his nose and said no more. He did not wish the younger children behind them to overhear, to be burdened with worries they could not carry. But it was too late. Little Soren had caught every word.
His face fell as the line shuffled forward. And there, clutching his empty ration sack, Soren realized something: in his town of Avendria, short rations were not an exception—they were the rule.
Now he understood why the porridge was always thin, why every stew tasted of roots and water, why the fare never changed. Why Leevi so often trailed after the local hunters, learning to track rabbits and birds in the woods, and why he kept a handmade bow and arrows beside their shared bed.
Perhaps, Soren thought, when he was older, he could follow Leevi into the forest too. Perhaps then they would bring home more meat, and the meals would be richer, warmer, filling enough to quiet the hunger that gnawed each night.
But Soren never had the chance to carry out that thought. When he turned eight, Leevi was the first to leave the orphanage.
A Civil Guard arrived at their door. It was the last days of winter, the chill wind slipping through the open door before it was shut again. Soren was sitting in the living room when Marta led the man inside. Leevi was still out in the forest hunting.
The officer was dressed in black from head to toe, a heavy book clutched in his arm. The way he smiled at Marta told Soren they knew each other.
"According to our records," the officer said, opening the book to a marked page, "one of yours turns eighteen this year. Leevi, isn't it?"
Marta showed no surprise. She only folded her hands together, as though the moment had long been expected. "Indeed, Officer Bohm. When is the summons?"
"Within thirty days," Bohm answered. "Plenty of time to prepare. Two years pass faster than you'd think."
"Do you know what he'll be assigned?" Marta asked, though her tone betrayed unease.
"That will be decided at assessment," Bohm said. "Most end up in the Infantry Corps. But I've seen the boy with the hunters, carrying his bow—he might qualify for the Archer Corps, depending on this year's allotment."
"And the region?" Marta pressed.
"Not Solenna. Viremont men never go there. Most are sent west to Kessarine or east to Aerden. Lately, the western border with Dravina has been souring—ambushes on villages, farms burned in Kessarine over the last few months. If I had to guess, that's where he'll be bound."
Marta inclined her head. Solenna, down south where the capital lay, was out of the question—that much was expected. But the thought of Leevi being sent to Kessarine, the land known for its rebels, smugglers, mercenaries, and the escalating border violence with another kingdom, pressed heavy on her heart. Still, she let none of it reach her voice.
"He'll report as expected, Officer Bohm," she said quietly.
"Good. He's a fine boy, that Leevi. He'll be in our care. Nothing to fret about."
With that, the Civil Guard left, his boots heavy on the steps.
When the door closed, Soren turned to her, unease flickering across his face. "Why were they looking for Leevi, Marta?"
"Conscription, my dear," Marta sighed. "Every boy is called at eighteen. Two years of service to the kingdom—that's the law."
Soren's voice dipped. "So he'll be gone that long?"
"Yes," Marta said quietly. "Two years. Then it will be Oskar's turn, then Seppo's... and one day, yours too, Soren."
His chest tightened. "Will they come back after? Will I come back?"
Marta's hand rested gently on his head, brushing through his hair. "Yes, they can return, if they choose. But you must understand, the Royal Army is a worthy path. Nivara has always faced raids, wars, invasions. Men who serve, and especially those who reenlist, are paid well and treated with honor."
"Then I'll make a lot of coins," Soren said quickly, his eyes brightened. "I'll send them to you. You can buy food, medicine... even new coats."
The heaviness in the room seemed to ease.
Marta studied the gold in his eyes, her lips softened into a smile. "You remind me why I chose your name," she said slowly. "When I first found you on the doorstep, you were wrapped in a blanket. Tucked inside was a scrap of paper with strange script. It looked like 'Sol', but I couldn't be sure. So, I named you Soren instead. From Sorenditas—the old word for the sun. Strange, perhaps, in a place where the sun so rarely shows. But the warmth in your eyes, that golden light... when I first held you and you looked at me so, the name simply came."
"I'll be your sun," Soren whispered, clutching her hand tightly, "before they take me away."
"Sweet boy." She patted his head. "Now, come. Let's start the stew. The others will be hungry soon."
They moved into the cramped kitchen together. That evening, when Soren ladled the broth, he shifted what little meat there was from his bowl into Leevi's. He did the same the next day, and again the next.