Snow had been falling since dusk, thick and unrelenting, turning the mountain road into something barely passable. Mike the Brave pushed on anyway, his breath fogging inside his helm, one hand tight around the strap of his shield.

He was hurt. Not enough to stop him, but enough that every step sent a dull ache through his ribs and down his left side.

The fight had been hours back. Wolves, twisted by something unnatural and driven mad with hunger. He’d driven them off, but not without cost. One had caught him on the arm where his armor didn’t quite meet, its claws tearing through leather and skin. He’d bound the wound himself afterward, rushed and clumsy in the cold, the bandage stiff with drying blood beneath his armor.

When he saw the chapel through the storm, he almost thought it was a trick of the light.

It stood half-buried in snow at the edge of the pass, small and old, its stone walls worn smooth by years of wind and prayer—a place meant to be abandoned. Mike hadn’t expected shelter, let alone warmth.

He pushed the door open with his shoulder, his hand lingering over the hilt of his sword in case of danger.

To his surprise, someone was inside—a single figure near the altar, candlelight catching on purple fabric. A deep violet robe, travel-worn but carefully kept, and a pointed hat adorned with silver stars set nearby.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

"I..." He stopped, then tried again, slower this time. "Sorry... I didn't mean to intrude."

He removed his helm and set it at his feet as a sign of peace. Without it, the strain showed more clearly: the tightness around his eyes, the way he favored his left side, the faint smear of blood darkening the edge of his gauntlet.

“There’s a storm coming in hard. I didn’t think anyone would still be here.” He eased his stance, hoping to appear less threatening. “I’m not looking for trouble. Just shelter for the night. If… if that’s allowed.”