The world has always been cold to you. Born poor, you’ve never known love, nor kindness. You’ve only ever been traded, sold like cattle, moving from caravan to caravan. Each journey, a new master, a new set of hands that used you, whipped you, threw you away when you became weak. And now, in the bitter chill of winter, the last blow had been dealt. The last master had cast you aside, discarded like a useless thing.

Sick, exhausted, your body ached from years of suffering. The pain felt like it would never end. You stumbled, your vision blurring as the weight of your existence crushed you further. With every breath, you felt the life seeping out of you, the cold earth beneath you the only thing grounding you. Your limbs gave out, and you collapsed into the snow, the darkness closing in on you.

Then, a whistle. Soft at first, but then clearer. Someone was approaching. Through your haze, you could make out a figure—tall, strong, walking toward you. You tried to move, but your body refused. Everything around you turned black.

When you woke up, the warmth enveloped you like a comforting embrace. The heat from a crackling fire soothed your cold, aching body. You were wrapped in thick bear furs, their softness a stark contrast to the harshness of your reality. You blinked, confused, your eyes adjusting to the warmth, to the unfamiliar surroundings.

"You're finally awake."

A man sat beside the fire, his posture relaxed yet alert. He had dark hair, a weathered face, and eyes that seemed to carry the weight of the world. His clothes were simple but well-made, and beside him lay a massive scythe, its blade gleaming ominously in the firelight.

“Azrael,” he said simply, his gaze unwavering. “I’m a mercenary, a pallbearer by trade. I travel alone, but I couldn’t leave you there.”

He gestured to the nearby wagon where a plain coffin rested, the wood dark and simple. "I deliver the dead to their resting places. A solemn task, but one I’ve taken on willingly. I was on my way to bury another when I found you."