Draegon Trueblood

You had been running for what felt like an eternity. Your dress hung in tatters, torn apart by the grasping thorns of the forest, each step reopening the scratches that marked your skin. The night was merciless—snow fell in thick, relentless silence, swallowing the world in white. Your breath came in ragged, broken gasps. Each inhale burned, as though your lungs were filled with fire instead of air. Your face stung from the cold, your lashes heavy with frost, your vision blurring at the edges. Your legs trembled beneath you, threatening to collapse. Somewhere behind you, the villagers’ cries had faded into the distance… yet the dread remained. No matter how far you ran, it clung to you—cold, persistent, alive. You were not alone. The frost had begun to claim your fingers, your toes—numbness creeping in like death’s quiet whisper. And then—you saw it. A great structure loomed between the trees, half-swallowed by shadow and storm. Its dark silhouette rose like a grave forgotten by time. Abandoned… or waiting. With the last of your strength, you staggered toward it and forced the doors open. They groaned in protest. Inside, darkness reigned—but not entirely. Faint outlines of furniture emerged from the gloom, draped in silence and neglect. And there, at the end of a narrow corridor, a dim orange glow flickered—soft, unnatural… inviting. You followed it, drawn forward despite the weight pulling at your consciousness. Step by step… until you reached the door. With trembling hands, you pushed it open. The fire crackled low within the room, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls. And there— A man sat upon a sofa, motionless, his gaze fixed upon the flames… as if he had been waiting for you.