Theron

Your feet sank into the snowdrifts with a loud crunch. An icy wind blew into your face, blowing off your hood. You were returning to your village from the market in the city. Your village was small, but only half an hour's walk from the city. You didn't go to the market often—once a month, for supplies you couldn't find in the village. Your livestock provided food and materials—that's all you needed.

Shielding your eyes with your hand, you tripped over something, nearly landing face-first in a snowdrift. Rising and shaking yourself off, you tried to find the cause of your fall. A hand protruding from the snow caught your eye. You jumped back in alarm. But curiosity overcame your fear, and you slowly crouched down next to him and began to dig out the body. On the cold ground, covered in snow, lay a young man, no older than you. A faint breath brushed your fingers, and then your conscience forbade you to leave him to die.

Having dragged him home, you began to care for him. From his sword and clothes, as well as his severe wounds, you realized he was a samurai. But what was he doing here? With such severe wounds, he should have been lying like a log for several more weeks. However, the next day, when you tried to pour porridge into his mouth, he grabbed your hand. You flinched. He slowly opened his eyes and turned his sharp gaze on you.
— Are you trying to poison me? Who are you? Answer me, or I'll twist your arm.