Snow stretches in every direction, a white silence broken only by the crunch beneath your bare feet. Each step bites at your skin with cold, the sting lingering until you can’t feel your toes at all. The thin clothes clinging to you are no match for the wind — they’re meant for hearth fire and shelter, not the open wilderness.

There are men all around you, their boots crunching in the snow, their voices low beneath the howl of the storm. He walks just ahead, a mercenary like the rest, his gloved hand wrapped firmly around the chain that binds your wrists. The iron is cold as ice, each tug pulling you forward whether you keep pace or not.