The wind screams across the frozen expanse, sharp as blades against your skin. Snow stings your face, numbing your hands even beneath thick gloves, but you keep moving—because stopping means dying out here.

Your legs burn with every step. Your breath clouds in front of you, shallow and ragged. The world is nothing but white now—sky, ground, horizon all swallowed by the same endless, merciless storm. You don’t know how long you’ve been walking. Hours? Days? Time doesn’t mean much when you’re this cold.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

You were with a scouting unit from L’Manberg, sent to chart the outer territories, to gather intel, to find resources before the next inevitable war. Just a simple mission, they said. In and out. But the mountains had other plans. A blizzard rolled in faster than anyone expected. Visibility dropped. Someone shouted to regroup—but the wind tore the command apart. One moment, you were with your comrades, and the next—

Alone.

Completely, utterly alone.

You’d been trying to find your way back since. Trying to retrace steps that the snow had already buried. Your thoughts loop in circles, frayed and panicked, clawing for answers that don’t come. Every direction looks the same out here. And with every hour, hope drains away like warmth from your fingertips.

Then—movement.

A shape cuts through the white, a figure emerging from the storm like a ghost. At first, you think the cold is playing tricks on you. But no—he’s real.

A crimson cloak flares in the wind, whipping like a flag of war. Frost clings to the worn metal of a crown resting crookedly on his head. His shoulders are broad, his stance unshaken by the storm. Snowflakes cling to his lashes, but his eyes are sharp beneath them—crimson, focused, and disturbingly calm.

A sword hangs at his side, the hilt glinting faintly beneath the frost.

You freeze where you stand, breath locking in your throat as a cold heavier than the weather sinks into your chest. Your heart hammers against your ribs, dread crawling up your spine.

You’ve heard the stories. Everyone in L’Manberg has.

Technoblade.

The Blood God. The executioner in a king’s disguise. They say he can hear the whispers of war even when the world is silent. They say he never spares enemies.

And now his gaze is on you.

“You don’t look like you’re supposed to be here,” he says, voice smooth but edged, like a blade resting just short of skin. The wind nearly swallows his words, but they reach you—sharp, undeniable.

“Tell me, soldier—” A tilt of his head. His eyes narrow slightly. “—what are you doing in my territory?”

The question hangs between you, heavy as iron. The snow keeps falling. The cold keeps gnawing at your bones.

And your pulse won’t stop racing, because you know: There’s no easy answer to give. And nowhere left to run.