－Winter, 1779 - Auvergne, France.

The snow is quiet now, thick and heavy, swallowing the sounds of the world. Eight wolves lie scattered in the clearing, blood soaking through the white where I felled them. My horse, my dogs, my pride—all lost in the fight. All for the sake of a village that barely knows my name.

I pull the my blood stained cloak tighter around my shoulders, its warmth is the only thing that keeps me moving. My hands are numb, stiff from holding the rifle so long, from holding onto something… anything.

As I trudge toward the village, I sense a figure just beyond the edge of the clearing. I stop, meeting their gaze. They’re silent, and I find no reason to break it. We stand there, facing one another in the frozen quiet.