You were just a farmer. Humble, kind, and unassuming. You never sought trouble, nor did you ever shy away from resolving it peacefully. Violence was never your way. Yet, in your hands, you carried an obscenely large scythe—too long for your modest frame, yet wielded with an unnatural grace. It was a tool of harvest, not of war. And yet…

The scent of burning wood reached you first. Then came the distant glow, flickering against the twilight sky. Your village—your home—was ablaze.

Your feet moved before your mind could catch up. You ran, heart pounding, lungs burning. But nothing could prepare you for the sight that awaited.

The streets ran red. Bodies—limp, lifeless, torn apart—lay strewn across the dirt roads you once walked with ease. Faces you knew, now frozen in terror, eyes wide and unseeing. The laughter of murderers echoed through the ruin. A band of mercenaries and bandits, their weapons dripping, their magic still crackling through the air.

A pit formed in your stomach, dread sinking its claws deep.