Winter clutched the land in its merciless grasp, a silent tyrant draping everything in shades of grey and white. The sky stretched above like a leaden sheet, vast and suffocating, with no sun to warm the soul. A lone crow cut across the sky, its wings slicing the still air with a desperate rhythm, a streak of black against the frozen pallor.
Beneath it, the forest lay dormant and brooding, draped in snow like a beast in uneasy slumber. Branches bowed under the weight of frost, and the silence was thick—unnatural—broken only by the echo of stumbling steps and the ragged draw of breath.
A boy ran.
He couldn't have been more than ten, his face pale with fear, cheeks raw from wind and cold. Each breath tore through his throat like fire and ice, and his small chest heaved beneath a threadbare coat that offered little warmth. Snow clung stubbornly to his lashes, his boots, his trembling fingers. He ran because he had to—because stopping meant the end.
Behind him thundered three armoured men, grim and relentless, their footfalls pounding the frozen earth like war drums. Their breath came in sharp clouds, swords drawn and hungry for blood, the metal flashing like shards of winter sun. They did not speak. They didn't need to. The boy's terror pulled them onward, and they followed, patient as wolves.
Each step the boy took sent pain lancing through his legs, but he didn't dare look back. He could hear them—closer now—the hiss of steel, the crunch of ice beneath their weight. Tears pricked at his eyes, but they froze before they could fall.
"You can't run forever, boy!" one of them roared, his voice tearing through the quiet night like a jagged knife, thick with rage and the thrill of the hunt.
The boy didn't answer—he couldn't. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, each one like fire in his lungs. His legs, thin and trembling, barely carried him forward, and the tears that spilled down his face turned to ice the moment they met the winter air. The cold bit deep, but fear was deeper still, driving him on with frantic urgency, even as his heart begged him to stop, to give in, to let go.
He choked on a sob and risked a glance over his shoulder, his wide eyes frantic with terror. But he didn't see the stone—hidden beneath the crust of snow, sharp and waiting.
His foot struck it.
Time lurched.
The world turned upside down.
And then there was nothing but sky, spinning snow, and the sickening weightlessness before the fall.
With a strangled cry, he pitched forward and crashed into the snow, the bitter cold erupting around him in a flurry of white. The impact stole the breath from his lungs. He lay there, half-buried, the ice seeping into his bones like poison, numbing him. Blood trickled from his split lip, mingling with the frost on his tongue—a metallic, biting taste that turned his stomach. His vision swam.
Behind him, heavy boots crunched through the snow, slow and deliberate. Each step echoed like a death knell, the sound sharp and final, as if time itself were marching toward his end.
One of the men stopped a few paces away, his shadow falling long across the snow. "this is the end of the road for you," he said, his voice low and cruel, a smirk twisting his weathered face. He raised his sword with grim purpose, the steel catching the pale light. It glinted like ice—and promised only death.
And then, silence.
Perched high on a gnarled branch, a lone crow tilted its head, its beady eyes gleaming with an eerie, almost human awareness. It watched in still silence as the soldier raised his sword, the blade catching a shard of pale sunlight. Below, a child whimpered—too paralyzed by fear to flee, too small to fight back.
The crow let out a sharp, rasping caw that sliced through the tension like a blade. Then it moved—wings beating the air in a blur of black. Mid-flight, its shape convulsed violently. Bone cracked. Feathers burst into threads of cloth. Shadows wrapped around shifting limbs. By the time its feet touched the ground, it was no longer a bird.
A man now stood beneath the trees.
He was tall, lean, and cloaked in layers of black that seemed woven from the night itself. A hood shrouded most of his face, but the curve of his mouth hinted at something between amusement and contempt. He leaned against the nearest tree as if he had all the time in the world, utterly unthreatened.
"Slaughtering children now?" he said, his voice a low and smooth laced with disdain. "How unspeakably heroic of you." the mans voice came out as sarcastic with a hint of anger.
The men stiffened, an unnatural stillness settling over them as the atmosphere thickened like a storm rolling in. Each breath they drew seemed harder than the last, as if the very air conspired to warn them.
One of the men slowly turned, his bravado unravelling the moment his gaze met the stranger's. A flicker of recognition crossed his face—brief, sharp, like a knife's edge. Then came the fear. Real fear. The kind that seeps into your bones before your mind has time to understand why.
"Wh-who… who are you?" he managed to say, voice cracking under the weight of dread. His fingers clenched tighter around the hilt of his sword, but the weapon no longer felt like an extension of himself—it felt like an anchor dragging him under.
The hooded man stepped forward slowly, every movement deliberate. Though his face was mostly hidden, his eyes were unmistakable—cold, sharp, unforgiving.
"I'm the last person you should've hoped to meet."
The stranger moved through the snow with the silent grace of a predator, each step measured, every motion effortless—yet beneath that calm exterior, tension thrummed like a wire drawn tight. The wind, sharp as broken glass, tugged at the edges of his weathered cloak, making it snap and flutter behind him like a restless shadow. Behind him, the soldiers in their heavy armour clanked and muttered, but he paid them no mind. Whether he'd forgotten them or simply no longer cared was impossible to tell.
All his attention—unyielding and sharp as the winter air—was fixed on the small figure crouched ahead. A child, alone in the whiteness. She trembled in the frostbitten stillness, her tiny frame wrapped in threadbare fabric, her breath rising in fragile clouds.
And still he walked, not faster, not slower. Just steady—like something inevitable.
When he reached the boy, he knelt slowly, the cold biting through his clothes, yet his movements held a tenderness that felt strangely out of place in such a bleak and violent world. With steady hands, he brushed the snow from the child's tangled hair, his touch soft, almost reverent.
"You don't have to be afraid," he said, his voice low, wrapped in warmth. It wasn't just a reassurance—it was a promise. A faint smile touched his lips as he met the boy's wide, tear-glossed eyes. "I'm here now. And I'll protect you."
Something shifted then.
The boy blinked, and the fear that had frozen him from the inside began to thaw. There was no logic to it—this man was a stranger, his face unfamiliar, his clothes worn from the road—but in his eyes, the boy saw something he hadn't seen in a long time: safety. Something ancient, steady, and unwavering. With a sniffle, he wiped at his nose, nodded, and leaned into the quiet certainty of that promise.
Then his eyes widened—something behind the stranger. A flash of silver. A sudden movement. Soldiers, their blades raised, charging. His breath caught in his throat. He tried to speak, to shout, but panic had locked his voice away.
The stranger didn't turn.
"Close your eyes," he said gently, as if he were telling the boy to sleep through a storm. That faint smile never left his face, not even as death rushed toward him.
The boy looked at him, then back at the oncoming blades. But the world had already begun to change. Time seemed to stretch, to warp. The snow hung in the air like suspended dust. The warriors moved, but sluggishly—as though the very earth resisted them.
Still trembling, the boy nodded and squeezed his eyes shut.
Then came the sounds.
The clash of steel. The sharp thuds of armoured bodies slamming into ice. Grunts, gasps, a cry cut short. The boy curled in on himself, his small hands clenched into fists, every noise making him flinch. Was he gone? Did they…?
His heart pounded.
And then—silence.
"You can open your eyes now."
The voice was the same—calm, steady, untouched by violence.
The boy opened his eyes hesitantly, peeking first through the smallest crack before daring to see fully.
The stranger stood there, whole and unharmed, the snow crunching beneath his boots as he stepped forward. He knelt again, not a single trace of blood on him, only the same quiet presence, like a hearth in winter.
The boy's eyes flicked past him. The soldiers lay sprawled in the snow, motionless. No blood. No cries.
"Did… did you kill them?" he whispered, his voice fragile, almost afraid of the answer.
The stranger looked at him, and for the first time, something flickered behind those eyes—sorrow. He didn't want this child to carry the weight of death, not so young. Not ever.
"No," he said gently. "They're alive. Just sleeping for a while."
The boy released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his shoulders easing. The stranger reached out and helped him to his feet, brushing snow from his little coat with care.
"Do you have a name?" he asked, his voice warm.
The child hesitated, still glancing back at the fallen men. Then, quieter but steadier than before, he said, "Y-yes… It's Arcos."
The man nodded, as if he had known it all along. Arcos stared up at him, a growing curiosity burning behind his wide eyes. He had to know.
"What's your name?" he asked, voice small, but earnest.
The stranger paused. His gaze shifted to the horizon, and something unspoken passed through him—an old memory, a name worn and heavy.
At last, he exhaled slowly, and answered.
"John."