Neva Prologue reminded me that everything dies, and that's okay

Two minutes into Neva's opening cutscene, the dog dies. This is not a spoiler; it's the point. Nevertheless, that dispassionate truth doesn't diminish the emotional response this particular death evoked in players. Widely considered the most heartbreaking game of 2024, Neva 'broke' us before we even knew what we were mourning, perhaps because it wasn't really about the dog.

Two and a half years later, Neva Prologue takes us away from death and back to birth - or at least, as close to it as we can get. We find Neva's human protagonist, Alba, alone but carefree. The strange corruption sweeping the land is in its infancy, and her trusty sword ensures basic survival. Still, I'm all too aware of how Alba's connection to the world becomes enriched by Neva's presence in it. Combat is more challenging here than in the base game due to Alba's own limitations. She can survive without Neva, but it is a lonely existence, even if she doesn't bear an outward expression of that loneliness.

When Alba finally encounters Neva in Prologue, she is painfully small - not much bigger than the butterflies Alba follows to find her. She also challenges every player's instinct to pet the dog. When Alba approaches, Neva shies away with her tail between her legs; try to interact with her, and she yelps in distress. Instead, we must turn away and let Neva come to us on her own terms. Here, Nomada Studio decouples Neva from the player sentiment that companions must be actually useful in some capacity.

Neva is more of a hindrance than a help. She's vulnerable to attack, yet no matter the danger she finds herself in, we are here to get her out of it without the expectation of anything in return. The same cannot be said the other way around. Still so new to this hostile world, Neva inadvertently triggers traps that put me in harm's way, heedless of the dangers around her. Once we finally earn her trust, Alba is forced to carry her through the most dangerous encounters, unable to use her sword to defend them both.

All of these shortcomings are excused because the player implicitly understands that Neva is a baby. There's something to be said for the components that Nomada Studio takes for its allegory. The bond between a woman and her "fur baby" is emblematic of the millennial sentiment that pets are a substitute for children. If Neva is an allegory for parenthood, then Neva Prologue is the moment of childbirth.

There is no death in Prologue's opening cutscene. Instead, Alba leaps into the great unknown. This premature version of her world is grey and indistinct, a huge contrast to the colorful vistas in the base game - not fully formed, yet gravid with Neva's absence and her imminent arrival. The final set piece unfolds as a puzzle mirroring the rhythmic pangs of labor. Flashing lightning and booming thunder strike at regular intervals, and timing your movements to this pattern is the key to solving it. The way forward is revealed only after it's become illuminated by the primal roar of nature.

Beyond gaming, global birth rates have fallen to historic lows, largely owing to the uncertain world we live in. Between war, climate change, and the sheer cost of living (a term that no one wants to examine too closely, in case we're forced to confront the horror of its implications), how can we protect our children? Neva doesn't dismiss these anxieties. On the contrary, it manifests them into immediate, mortal dangers.

Despite it all, we come to understand through Prologue that all of this struggle and strife is worth it because we have seen what follows. The storm of labor is over, and our reward is a tender embrace, wreathed in light, as the mother names her child: "Neva." Whether this moment is worth the possibility of future heartbreak is left for the player to decide. Death is as natural as birth, and it's only fitting that Prologue examines the latter.

As I said in my Neva review, the beauty of Nomada Studio's storytelling lies in how it makes space for personal connection. Less than two weeks before Neva was released, I said goodbye to our family dog. Playing it in the throes of this grief caused a profound ache, but it was also integral to that healing process. Now, a year and a half later, the memory of letting her go is no longer a raw nerve. Instead, Neva Prologue reminds me that the love we can hold for another is more than the moment we lose them - even when its immediacy overshadows everything else.