The snow stretched across the plains like a corpse's shroud — cold, pale, and indifferent. A trail of shallow footprints marred the pristine white, trodden by boots too heavy and souls too tired.
A luxurious carriage rolled along the frozen path, its polished wood gleaming like it didn't belong out here — which, to be fair, it didn't. Dozens of mercenaries surrounded it, armor clinking, blades rattling, boots crunching. An expensive procession through a cheap death trap.
And somewhere in the middle of that muscle parade was a guy who clearly didn't want to be there.
Thin. Pale. Crimson-eyed. Seth.
Not that it mattered.
'Should've stayed home. Frozen half to death, still got paid the same — nothing.'
He sniffed and rubbed his gloved hands together. The cold seeped in through layers like it had a personal vendetta. Somewhere under all that snow and steel, a muttered curse slipped through his chapped lips.
'I thought escorting a rich merchant's daughter would be easy. Too many hired goons for anything to happen, right? Turns out, the only thing I'm guarding is my own miserable heat.'
A walking slab of muscle bumped into him. Deliberate. No words — just a smirk and a look. One of those types. The ones who thought brawn made you better. That if a god didn't hand you a golden spoon at birth, you didn't deserve to eat.
Well, Seth hadn't gotten a spoon. Or a god.
He was Forsaken.
In this world, if you were chosen by a god, you were blessed. Powerful. Worth something. If not… well. You got used to the taste of dirt. And disrespect.
'Gods are supreme,' Seth thought, 'My frozen ass.'
"Hey, you okay?" a voice asked.
Seth blinked. A guy about his age had walked up. Light armor. Bow slung awkwardly on his back. Nervous eyes. The kind that said rookie.
"Huh?"
"I said, you okay?" the guy repeated, smiling like they were friends already. "First time seeing someone scowl so hard their eyebrows might snap off."
Seth stared at him. "Who're you?"
"Dron. Newbie archer. First mission."
"…Right. I'm Seth."
"Cool! Not much of a talker, huh?"
"I like my conversations short. Cuts down the odds of dying mid-sentence."
"…That's kind of dark."
"Yeah. Welcome to the job."
Dron laughed, awkward but genuine. Seth didn't bother telling him the truth — that most guys who talked too much ended up headless before they finished their punchline.
"YOU TWO!" The caravan leader barked from atop his horse. "MOVE YOUR DAMN FEET OR LOSE 'EM!"
Seth didn't respond. Just grumbled internally.
'Come down here and say that, you saddle-sore bastard…'
Eventually, the convoy stopped for a break, downhill from the worst of the wind. The mercs clustered around the main bonfires like oversized dogs — barking, boasting, elbows sharp enough to bruise.
Seth managed to light a modest flame with Dron's help. It was enough. Warmth didn't need to be proud.
Then the carriage door opened.
And she stepped out.
Young. Fox-like. Expensive clothes, expensive posture, expensive everything. Her presence demanded attention. Most of the mercs ogled or straightened their spines. Seth just stared.
No beauty could fool him.
"So that's her," he muttered.
"Yeah," Dron said beside him. "That's Saria Velheim. Merchant princess. Merenya Guild. Some bigshot in the capital wants her dead."
Seth raised an eyebrow. "You sure we're gonna be—"
"AMBUSH!"
First head flew before the word finished. Blood sprayed across the snow like crimson ink on a white page.
Seth's pulse spiked.
His instincts — those primal alarms forged in slums where it was survival of the fittest— screamed in unison.
Run.
Arrows rained down like divine judgment. Shadows moved like water — fast, silent, inevitable. The convoy splintered. Screams. Steel. Chaos.
Saria was shoved back into the carriage.
Seth gripped his dagger. Hands trembling. The wooden hilt dug into his palm.
'No use. These aren't bandits. They're trained. Killers.'
"SETH! MOVE—!"
Dron never finished the sentence. His head dropped to the ground like a fruit from a tree. He really did die mid sentence.
Blood splattered across Seth's face. He didn't scream. No time.
Just clarity.
'This is it.'
"I won't die, you fuckers!" he roared.
He lunged forward, dagger raised. But he was too slow. His arm hit the ground before the pain did. Then came the second strike—clean through the waist. His body split. The snow drank deep.
And silence followed.