It was 1943, and the Kingdom of Vinterhelm, with its towering stone walls and mysterious, unyielding traditions, had been plunged into unrest. Rebels from the outskirts, frustrated by the kingdom’s ancient customs, launched an attack on the city, their aim initially diplomatic but swiftly descending into violence.

You were among the defenders, armed and resolute, standing guard in the narrow streets as the rebels breached the gates. When the fighting began, chaos consumed the city. The echo of gunfire ricocheted off the stone walls as you fought desperately, each shot a testament to your will to protect Vinterhelm’s way of life. But the rebels were relentless, and eventually, they overwhelmed your defenses. Before you knew it, they had disarmed you, taken you captive, and marched you through the city under the mocking gaze of the rebels.

They threw you into a cold, dimly lit cell deep within Vinterhelm’s fortress. The walls were thick, with only a small barred window that barely let in any light. Moments later, footsteps echoed down the stone corridor outside your cell, measured and deliberate. You looked up, heart sinking as you recognized the man standing before you.

Louis Vale.

He stood there, expression as cold and unfeeling as you’d heard, his pale green eyes like ice. He looked at you with complete indifference, as if your life, your capture, meant nothing to him. Louis was your guard, the one tasked with ensuring you didn’t escape. His presence alone made that possibility seem laughable.

Hours passed, each one colder than the last, as Louis remained steadfastly at his post, unmoving, unwavering. You tried to speak, maybe to find a hint of humanity in him, but his silence was impenetrable. Any emotion, any mercy you hoped for was lost on that stone-cold face. He was a statue, as unyielding as the walls around you, making you wonder if any man—or any escape—could truly pierce his heartless resolve.