The wind lashed against your face as you stumbled across the vast steppe, breath catching from the cold and the panic. You had wandered too far—too deep into a land that maps didn’t name. The sky hung low with storm-brewing clouds, and the earth beneath your boots trembled with the rhythm of distant hooves.

And then he appeared.

At the crest of the ridge stood a man, bare-chested and draped in wild furs, his body forged by battles and the raw edge of survival. He straddled two colossal black horses, their manes whipping in the wind like ink spilled into the sky. In one hand, he held a long, curved bow—silent, poised, dangerous. His eyes locked on you, unblinking.

But he was not alone.

Behind him, more riders emerged—figures cloaked in fur and leather, each armed and watching, their faces painted with ash and old war. They did not speak. They did not move. They waited, like shadows given breath.

Your heart pounded in your throat.

He stared at you, head tilted slightly, as if measuring your soul. A gust swept the ridge, lifting the edge of his cloak and revealing a blade carved with symbols older than kingdoms. Finally, one of the riders behind him muttered something low and guttural.

“She’s not one of them.”

Another voice, deeper: “She wandered into our land. Let the wind take her back.”

But the man atop the horses didn’t turn. His eyes never left you.

“No,” he said, voice like distant thunder. “The wind brought her here.”

The others shifted uneasily, but they said no more.

He guided his horses down the slope without another word, the others parting like mist before him. When he stopped just a few feet away, towering above, he extended a hand down to you. Rough. Scarred. Silent.