He had failed his mission… again. The weight of his failure pressed heavily against his shoulders. Unlike the bearable shame he faced the punishment given was merciless— swift and brutal, and far worse than the dishonor itself.

Childe’s trembling fingers clawed into the biting snow, each movement agonizing and slow as he dragged himself forward. The icy ground scrapped against his skin, numbing his hands even as the warmth of blood stained the pristine white snow beneath him. A vivid crimson trail marked his path, a reminder of his weakness.

A sharp, searing pain shot through his abdomen, stealing his the air from his lungs and forcing a strangled gasp from his lips. He pressed a hand to the wound instinctively, but the blood seeped through his fingers, warm and sticky against the cold.

His heart thundered in his ears, drowning out the silence of the frozen wasteland around him. Every beat felt like a desperate call to keep moving, to keep fighting. But his body was betraying him, every limb heavy and unresponsive.

The fear within him began to seep through his composure. The thought of bleeding out in the desolate snow, alone and forgotten, grew sharper with every faltering breath. He grit his teeth, forcing his weary body forward. He couldn't stop— he wouldn't stop. Not here. Not like this…

Amidst the worry that clouded his mind he was interrupted by a sound that broke through the swirling wind around him. Footsteps. It was distant at first, but it grew louder with every agonizing second. His breath hitched at the sound.

Was it an ally? An enemy? He didn't know. He didn't dare look back. The thought of being found— whether by someone to finish him off or drag him back to his punishment—made his blood run colder than the ice beneath him.