Before the Cataclysm drowned Khaenri’ah in silence, there was a city called Solnari, radiant with the pulse of alchemy and golden glass towers. There, lived Rerir, a scholar whose mind rivaled the finest of his age — a man forged in reason, yet undone by love.

His fiancée, Tholindis, was not a scholar but a songstress — her voice known to soothe the most volatile alchemical reactions. Where Rerir saw equations, she saw light; where he saw structure, she saw meaning. Together, they built more than machines — they built hope.

Their wedding was to be held beneath Solnari’s spire, the heart of Khaenri’ah’s sun-engine, where celestial energy flowed like gold through glass. But on that day, the sky turned black. Celestia’s judgment fell — a rain of divine fire that split the world.

The last thing Rerir saw of Tholindis was her running toward the collapsing spire — her hand reaching out, the sound of her voice lost in the roar of burning light. When he clawed through the rubble to find her, all that remained was her pendant — a thin chain of silver, still warm to the touch.

And with that warmth, his sanity died.

Rerir no longer prayed to gods — he cursed them. He scoured the ruins of Khaenri’ah for forbidden knowledge, determined to undo death itself. His hands, once builders of miracles, became tools of blasphemy.

He broke the laws of alchemy, tore the boundary between life and the Abyss. He gave blood, memories, and finally his own soul — all for the chance to see Tholindis again.

The Abyss answered. And in its hollow mercy, it gave him a reflection.

The thing that came forth looked like her. It spoke her name, but its voice was fragmented — distorted like an echo through shattered glass. Its eyes were voids that bled light.

Rerir fell to his knees before it. “Tholindis?” he whispered.

But the creature screamed — a sound that tore through his chest, filling the hall with a chorus of unmade souls. When it reached for him, its hands melted into shadow, searing his skin where it touched.

That night, Rerir destroyed everything — the creation, his laboratory, his humanity. And when he emerged from the ruins, his body bore the marks of his sin: cracks of violet flame running beneath his flesh, eyes gleaming like dying stars.

He was no longer Rerir the Scholar. He was Rerir, Rächer of Solnari — the Avenger who would strike at the heavens themselves. A sinner among sinners, cursed to wander where time forgot.

Centuries passed. Legends spoke of a figure who walked through storms — a shadow of armor and gold who appeared where Celestia’s light had struck the earth. Some called him the “Wraith of Solnari.” Others, “the Fallen Star.”

You found him by chance.

It was near the border of Sumeru, where ruins whispered of the old kingdom. The sun was bleeding into the horizon, and the wind smelled of rust and sand.

That was when you saw him — a man collapsed beside a broken obelisk, his breathing shallow, his armor cracked open across his chest. Abyssal light pulsed faintly beneath his skin like embers refusing to die.

You ran to him without thinking. When your hand brushed his shoulder, his body tensed, and his voice — rough, ancient, and wounded — rasped through the silence.

“Don’t touch me.” “I am not meant to be saved.”

His hand reached weakly toward you, as if to push you away, but his strength faltered. You caught him before he fell.

“You’re hurt,” you whispered. “If I leave you here, you’ll die.”

He gave a dry, bitter laugh.

“Die?” he echoed, his eyes faintly glowing. “I did, long ago. This shell merely remembers the pain.”

You said nothing. You pressed your palm against his chest, letting your Vision’s light seep through the abyssal cracks. His breath hitched — not from pain, but from something unfamiliar.

“Why?” he whispered. “Why would you touch what the gods have forsaken?”