Shroud had always known pain. It wasn't a sharp, sudden blow; it was more like the constant gnawing of hunger, or the cold wind that never stopped biting at your skin. It was always there, lurking just beneath the surface, reminding him that he was never truly whole.

As a child, he didn't have a word for it—orphan. He didn't need one. He only knew that there was a gap in his life, an empty space that nothing could fill. Not the laughter of the other children, nor the smiles of parents who were always there, always safe. His parents—his mother and father—were his whole world. They were warmth, protection, love. As long as they were together, the world outside felt distant, a place where nothing could touch him.

But the world doesn't care about love. It takes, without warning or reason.

The memories of those days, the ones before the storm, were as vivid to him as the biting wind that now whipped across his skin. His father, a quiet man with hands calloused from years of work as a blacksmith, would return home each evening covered in soot, his face streaked with dirt but his eyes always shining with affection when he saw Shroud. His mother, graceful and warm, would rush to meet him, always ensuring their small home was filled with love and laughter.

They were happy. They were safe.

But safety is an illusion. And that illusion shattered one night, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, dark shadows across their small, humble home.

His father had gone to the market, and his mother had sent him to bed early, like any other night. The warmth of the fire crackled in the hearth as Shroud lay under the covers, drowsy but content, the world outside seeming far away.

But that night, the world inside their home changed forever.

A knock came at the door. It was late—too late for visitors. Shroud's mother hesitated, her eyes flicking nervously to the door, but she opened it with a welcoming smile, as she always did.

But the shadows that entered weren't visitors. They were dark, cold, and filled with an air of finality.

Before Shroud could even process what was happening, he heard the crash—his mother's scream and his father's desperate shout. The door slammed open, and figures in dark cloaks filled the doorway, blocking out the light. His father fought back, but the attackers were too many. They overwhelmed him, and the sound of his fall—heavy and final—echoed through the house.

His mother's face, pale and trembling as she tried to shield Shroud, haunted him to this day. She shouted for him to hide, to run, but there was no place to go. Their home, once a sanctuary, now felt like a cage.

And then, just as suddenly, the attackers were gone. His parents lay motionless, their blood staining the floor, while Shroud could only stare, too terrified to move. The warmth, the love—they were gone, leaving nothing but an empty shell of a house and the echoes of screams in his mind.

Shroud's world crumbled that night. And when he finally found the strength to step out of his hiding place, it was over. His parents were gone, their blood still fresh on the floor, and Shroud was left with nothing but an unbearable silence.

For days, he cried, but no one came. There were no comforting hands, no words of solace. The city turned its back on him. The orphanages, more concerned with money and favor than the children who needed them, ignored him.

The streets became his home. Cold concrete was his bed. He learned quickly that the world didn't care about kindness, or love, or dreams. It only cared about survival. And for Shroud, survival became a daily battle. He learned to be strong, not because he wanted to be, but because there was no other choice. The world was a place where the weak were trampled, and kindness was nothing more than a weakness.

Years passed, and the faces of those he once knew faded into the background, like shadows in a fog. The city became a place of emptiness, where survival was the only currency, and hope was something others spoke of but never touched.

But despite the years of bitterness, there was still a small spark inside Shroud—a fragile ember that refused to be extinguished. It whispered to him of something more. It spoke of a life beyond the streets, beyond the suffering, beyond the pain. A life where love could still exist, where he could still find warmth.

And it was this ember, this small flicker of hope, that would lead him to the next chapter of his life.

The day the whispers of the Pathways first reached his ears, Shroud had been wandering the city streets once more, numb to the world around him. The sensation had come slowly, like a distant echo, tugging at the corners of his mind, growing louder with every step. At first, he thought it was just the wind or the fatigue of his journey. But the whispers… they grew clearer.

Shroud…

He staggered to a stop. His heart skipped a beat as he felt the words press into his mind, though he couldn't understand them.

Shroud, the Pathways have chosen you.

He didn't know what it meant, but something inside him stirred. His body felt lighter, the weight of the years lifting for the first time in what felt like forever. But just as suddenly as it began, the sensation stopped.

The wind howled around him, and the world seemed to tilt. Before he could grasp what was happening, the ground beneath his feet disappeared.

Shroud felt the world slip away as if he was falling through a void, a cold, empty space that stretched infinitely in all directions. The pain that had always followed him, like a shadow, suddenly intensified, pressing down on his chest. The world around him warped, colors flashing and swirling, until, with a final jolt, the void collapsed.

Shroud gasped, his hands bracing against the cold floor beneath him, his breath catching in his throat. The wind howled around him, but this time, it wasn't the familiar chill of the city streets. The air was... different. It was suffocating, freezing, and it pressed in on him from all sides.

Shroud stumbled to his feet, his senses scrambling to catch up with the sudden shift. He was no longer in the city. The streets, the buildings, the life he had known—they were gone.

He was in a new world. A cold world.

The Pathway had chosen him.