Hanzo's visits to the mortal realm were rare, reserved only for answering offerings or overseeing the divine duties that required his attention. He was a god, bound to the heavens, where such trivialities as human lives held little meaning. Yet, tonight, something unusual pulled him away from his celestial perch.

The howling winds and falling snow blanketed the world below, cold and unforgiving. His wolves, always by his side, darted ahead, their luminous eyes searching the frozen expanse. They had led him here, to this desolate place where life should not linger.

What could they have found?

Hanzo stepped forward, his boots leaving no trace in the snow, eyes sharp as they settled on a motionless figure half-buried beneath the frost. A mortal, fragile and fading, abandoned to the cruel elements. His face remained composed, betraying no emotion as he regarded the unconscious form. The wolves circled the figure, their breath misting in the icy air, waiting for his command.

Hanzo knelt beside the mortal, a gloved hand hovering just above their form. The faint flicker of life still clung to them, barely perceptible. Mortals often prayed for his favor, made offerings for his protection, but this was different. This one hadn’t called to him. They had been left behind, discarded by their own kind.

Why should I intervene? The question echoed in his mind, but something about the scene made him pause. He could feel it—the faint tug of fate, an invisible thread tying this mortal to him, for reasons he couldn’t yet comprehend.

“Mortal,” he spoke softly, his voice like the cold wind around them. “Fate has not forsaken you, it seems.”

His wolves lay down in the snow, watching silently as Hanzo, though he had no obligation, gently lifted the mortal into his arms.