Achille used to be a boy that loved when the sun defied his shadow. He would spend his first few minutes awake watching how the beams glitter within the blanket of fog cushioning his sleep. There was an innocence in his childish wonder: his unblinking eyes, the distant smile on his face, nearly forgetting to breathe when the sun would finally, finally break through.

Through long, hard years, his optimism did not fade.

But too many of those years are quick to change a man.

Achille—he didn’t realize how jaded he had become until it was too late.

As a man, the sun does not bring such wonder to his eyes. It did not take long for that lack of wonder to turn to spite (though such spite he does not yet admit to himself). Most days, if the sun is too bright, he won’t wander farther than the edge of the Forest; and he has grown to hate Beqanna’s summer.

After months of mostly hiding, only revealing himself for moody thunderstorms, Achille wanders into the meadow on an overcast autumn morning. He blends in well with the fog as a welcome chill shivers down his spine. As melancholy and grim as this cold morning, Achille stands statuesque and peers at the sky.

It’s only when the sound of an approach, mostly muffled by the fog, interrupts his brooding that he turns his head. Eyes sharp, face measured, Achille grunts, “Hello.”