Winter gripped the land like a clenched fist, the sky an endless stretch of dull grey. A solitary crow sliced through the clouds, a shadow against the cold light, its wings beating with frantic urgency. Far below, the forest sprawled like a slumbering beast, its branches heavy with snow, its silence broken only by the sound of laboured breath and crashing footsteps.
A boy—no older than ten—ran with all the strength his small body could muster, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Snow clung to his boots and lashes, slowing him, chilling him to the bone. Behind him, three armoured men gave chase, their heavy boots pounding the frozen ground, swords drawn and gleaming like icicles in the pale light.
"You can't run forever, boy!" one of them bellowed, his voice slicing through the stillness like a blade.
The child didn't answer—he couldn't. His lungs burned, his legs trembled, and the tears streaming down his cheeks froze almost instantly. Fear kept him moving, even as every instinct screamed that it was hopeless. He dared a glance over his shoulder, eyes wide with panic—and never saw the jagged stone buried just beneath the snow.
His foot caught.
The world flipped.
With a cry, he tumbled face-first into the freezing powder, snow exploding around him. He lay there, stunned, cold burrowing into his skin, the taste of blood and frost on his tongue. Behind him, the men slowed, their boots crunching steadily as they approached, like the ticking of a clock counting down his final moments.
"End of the road," one of them muttered with a cruel smirk, raising his sword above his head. The blade gleamed with murderous promise.
And then, silence.
A crow watched from a nearby branch, eyes glinting with unnatural intelligence. As the soldier's sword began to fall, the bird launched into the air with a harsh cry. Mid-flight, its form shimmered, bones cracking, feathers twisting into fabric and flesh.
In the blink of an eye, a man stood where the crow had been—dark-clad, hooded, his figure still and unbothered as he leaned casually against a tree.
"Killing a child," he said, his voice smooth but edged with steel. "How brave of you."
The men froze, the air around them growing heavier with every heartbeat. One of them turned, his expression faltering when he saw the stranger. Recognition flickered in his eyes—then fear.
"Wh-who are you?" he stammered, the sword in his hand suddenly feeling heavier.
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 with quiet purpose, each step deliberate, his body at ease but coiled like a spring, ready to react in an instant. The cold wind tugged at his cloak as he crossed the snow-laced field, the armoured soldiers behind him forgotten—or perhaps simply ignored. His focus was fixed on the child ahead, shivering in the frost.
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."