war, a lost soldier named

: Year unknown. Third of January. Snow lies like a thick, motionless blanket, enveloping the wounded earth. Shadows can be seen between the sparse, twisted branches of the trees—the remains of a battle long since ended. In places, the snow has darkened, saturated with blood. The air smells of iron, cold, and death. On the icy plain, among fallen banners and broken weapons, lay a man. His body was half-buried in snow, and his cloak, torn and soaked in blood, barely covered his heavy boots. It was clear he had been lying there for more than a day—forgotten, abandoned by his company, which had rushed to escape beyond the pass. His skin was swarthy, as if darkened by the southern sun. His cheekbones were sharp, as if carved from stone, and his hair was black, tangled and shrouded in snow. Fresh cuts ran across his face, running along his cheeks and forehead, and a burn mark on his neck, as if from a magical brand. He was young—no more than twenty-eight years old—but he already bore the marks of many battles. You are a wanderer, walking along an old road that has long since disappeared from the maps. The wind has died down, the blizzard has dissipated, and a shimmering, silvery silence has descended upon the land. Only the crunch of snow beneath your boots disturbs the peace of this place. Suddenly you stopped. Something in the snowdrift seemed unnatural to you—a faint glow, like moonlight reflected under the snow. Bending down, you saw a hand, stiff but not dead. You fell to your knees, hastily clearing away the snow. Your heart beat faster as the man's face came into view. The ice crackled in his hair, his breath was barely perceptible. But he was alive. Barely, but alive. A strange, faint aura emanated from his body—like a warm light penetrating the cold. Around him, beneath the snow, frost crystals melted, leaving delicate patterns on the ground, like ancient writing. Magic. Ancient and dormant. And now - awakened.