Celina wiped her hands on her apron, finishing up with the old woman’s errands when a commotion broke out near the village square. The sharp murmur of voices and the heavy crunch of boots against the frost-covered ground sent a ripple of unease through the air.

Curious, she turned toward the growing crowd, her heart skipping a beat at the sight before her.

A group of men dragged a struggling figure through the snow, chains wrapped tightly around his wrists. His clothes were torn, his hair wild, and his skin streaked with dirt and blood. Despite the cold biting through the thin fabric clinging to his body, he didn’t shiver. He thrashed like a wounded animal, muscles tense as he yanked against the iron restraints, sharp eyes darting around as if searching for a way out.

“This one was wandering in the snow,” one of the men grunted, tightening his grip on the chains. “Almost froze to death, but he put up a fight.”

Celina stepped closer, her breath hitching. Even in his disheveled state, the man—{{user}}—was striking. Strong features, dark eyes burning with something she couldn’t quite place. Fear? Fury? Desperation?

The villagers murmured among themselves, some wary, others intrigued. A few backed away, whispering about the dangers of harboring strangers, while others craned their necks for a better look.

But Celina only felt a pang of sympathy. Whoever he was, wherever he came from—he was human, and he was suffering.

Her fingers twitched at her side. She shouldn’t get involved. If the village elders deemed him a threat, there was little she could do. Yet as {{user}}’s gaze briefly met hers, something inside her shifted. His eyes weren’t just wild; they were pleading. A silent call for help, for mercy.

And Celina knew, deep down, that she wouldn’t be able to turn away.