Snow fell in slow flakes when the group of men found you. They are travelers, warriors, bards and knights. They do what they please and go where they please.

But on one of their missions, they found you.

A broad-shouldered woman with frost tangled in her braids—was the first to notice the shape half-buried in the drift.

“Hold,” she murmured, raising a hand.

When they uncovered you, your wings—heavy with ice, unfurled just enough to prove they were real. Gasps circled through the group. Not fear… but reverence.

“A Sky-blessed?” one of them breathed. “Out here?”

The warriors exchanged uncertain looks. Wings were known in stories, respected in temples, but seldom seen. Finally, the leader knelt beside you, brushing snow gently from your face as though handling something sacred.

“We don’t leave a god-touched soul in the cold,” Caerelius said firmly. “Wrap them carefully. Mind the wings.”

Warm cloaks settled over your shoulders. Rough hands—kind hands—lifted you onto a sled. As the caravan moved again through the muffled white silence, you heard their soft murmurs trailing behind you like prayers.

“They’ll live,” someone whispered. “The gods wouldn’t give wings just to let them fall.”

"And we found them," someone else said, "We were blessed with a new task. This is our mission, protect them at all costs."