After the man vanished, the forest itself seemed to exhale. The oppressive weight that had draped over the woods like a suffocating veil slowly dissipated. Trees no longer creaked in warning, the air felt lighter, and even the distant cries of wild Pokémon returned as if the land had been holding its breath. Riven stood motionless for a few seconds, eyes still fixed on the shadows where the man had disappeared.
He let out a long breath—a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. It slipped from him like a thread unraveling, and with it came a dizzying wave of exhaustion. His knees nearly buckled, but he held firm, inhaling deeply, then again, trying to ground himself.
What... what just happened? he thought. How did I end up in this mess?
The question echoed in his mind, and the illusion of calm he was forcing upon himself shattered.
His breath hitched. His vision blurred. Then—
Tears began to spill silently down his cheeks, dripping from his chin and soaking into the dirt beneath him. His shoulder burned with pain, his muscles ached, and yet it wasn't the physical agony that undid him—it was everything else. The confusion. The terror. The realization that he was now entangled in something far beyond what he could understand. Something monstrous. Something ancient.
What am I doing here? he asked himself, and his knees gave way, sending him to the forest floor. Froakie stirred slightly in his arms, but didn't wake.
"I'm not ready," he whispered to no one. "I'm not... strong enough."
His chest rose and fell erratically as his mind spiraled. Memories of Kaer Vaelen surfaced, of Mira's playful smirk, of Grandpa Gideon's stern but warm eyes. The warmth of home clashed violently with the cold dread still lingering in the air around him. This wasn't a journey anymore. This was survival. No, this was something worse. A game being played with pieces he didn't even understand.
And that man. That faceless, haunting man.
His voice echoed in Riven's mind like a curse: "The power of gods... the blood of something that should not exist..."
The boy clenched his jaw, shaking his head.
This is too much. Too fast. How can I hold it all together?
He wanted to scream. To tear at the earth and demand the world to make sense again. But all he could do was cry, quietly, shamefully, alone.
You're breaking, he thought.
"I... I am breaking," he admitted aloud in a cracked whisper. "I don't know who I am anymore."
But then, like a distant light in his mental storm, another voice—familiar, steady—rose from the depths of his memory. His grandfather's voice.
> "The world will try to break you, Riven. Again and again. Until you forget who you are. But that's the thing about pressure—it can destroy you, yes. Or... it can forge something new. Something stronger."
The memory anchored him.
His sobbing slowed, his breathing began to stabilize. He sat there, broken, yes—but not completely lost. Slowly, painfully, he began to gather the scattered fragments of himself. Not to rebuild, not yet—but to hold them close, to remember that they still existed.
He wiped his face, though the dirt smeared with tears only made him look worse. He didn't care.
"I have to think," he whispered to himself. "I can't afford to fall apart. Not yet."
Riven inhaled deeply and let it out in a trembling sigh. The moment passed—heavy, but passed.
As his thoughts cleared, he stood slowly, cradling Froakie carefully in his arms. The little Pokémon was still unconscious, its breath shallow but steady.
He turned to where the man had disappeared. The underbrush parted strangely in that direction—as if the very forest had retreated from him. As Riven approached, something caught his eye. Resting atop a patch of moss was a Poké Ball—except it wasn't like any he'd ever seen. Sleek, almost metallic in appearance, with arcane etchings along its rim. Beside it lay a folded piece of paper.
With caution, he picked up the note. The handwriting was elegant, practiced.
This is a little gift for your little friend.
Riven stared at the note for a long moment. He knew exactly who it referred to.
"Froakie..."
But a gift from him? That man?
Every instinct screamed at him to throw it away. This could be a trap. A trick. Poison.
Yet another voice argued inside him. Why would the man trap me like this? He had a hundred chances to kill me. If he wanted to, he could've ended me without even raising a finger.
He weighed both voices back and forth, over and over.
Conflicted and cautious, he finally decided. He wouldn't use it—not yet. But he couldn't ignore it either. He took the ball and slipped it into his bag. Alongside it, he carefully stored the vials the man had given him—the strange, glass containers he claimed would help Froakie's condition.
He needed to be organized. He needed to move.
It was still daylight, but shadows were beginning to stretch across the forest floor. He couldn't afford to stay here until nightfall.
Riven looked down at his shoulder. The pain was still agonizing, especially when he moved it. He couldn't leave it hanging freely. Gritting his teeth, he tore what remained of his already ragged shirt and tied his right arm tightly to his chest to prevent movement. The crude sling wasn't perfect, but it would do.
He pulled a clean shirt from his bag—thankful he packed spares—and forced it over his head with one arm. It hurt. Gods, it hurt. But the burn in his chest now served another purpose: it kept him alert.
He adjusted his pack, now slung diagonally across his good shoulder. Each movement shot daggers through his side, but he bore it. The bag was his lifeline, after all. He couldn't afford to discard it.
Aron was still safe in its Poké Ball. With Froakie tucked against his left side and exhaustion weighing heavily on his bones, Riven took his first steps away from the clearing.
One step. Then another.
The forest remained quiet now. No haunting whispers. No unseen watchers.
Just the sound of a boy's footsteps and the slow, steady beat of a heart trying to find itself again..