Dark clouds loomed ominously overhead, their heavy presence casting a shadow over the world below.
Thunder rumbled angrily, echoing through the desolation as rain began to pour in torrents.
In Wind Moon Valley, the once a vibrant Wind Moon Village that was once filled with laughter and life, only ruins remained, gruesome remnants of destruction lay scattered everywhere.
Blood splattered across the ground painted a hellish landscape that seemed to mourn its own demise.
The relentless downpour washed away pools of crimson, transforming the scene into a grotesque blood river flowing into the distance.
A short distance from this tragedy stood a tall cliff, atop which rested a freshly dug grave.
Before it stood a solitary figure cloaked entirely in black, motionless as the rain continued its relentless assault.
Time seemed to stand still as this figure silently honored what was lost.
After an hour of stillness, the figure finally stirred.
"Rest well, old friend," came a hoarse voice that broke through the storm's fury as he turned and walked away from the grave.
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"Snow!" Azrael jolted awake with a gasp, his heart racing and sweat trickling down his forehead.
Confusion enveloped him as he took in his surroundings, a small wooden room devoid of anything but a blanket covering him.
As reality settled in, despair washed over him like an icy wave.
He lowered his head, shoulders trembling as sobs wracked his body. "Snow… Lykon… Uncle Galen… Grandpa… they're all gone! Why? Why? Why?"
His voice cracked under the weight of grief; tears streamed down his face like an uncontrollable river.
The memories flooded back, the horrifying slaughter of his friends and the massacre that obliterated his village replayed vividly in his mind.
Just yesterday they had been laughing together, preparing for a joyous festival to celebrate another year of life; now everything had changed irrevocably.
The trauma of witnessing such brutality shattered him completely.
"Oh! Kid! You're awake!" A sudden hoarse voice sliced through Azrael's sorrowful reverie.
Startled, he looked up to see an old man standing at the door, a figure with short white hair and an even longer beard reaching down to his stomach.
Dressed in black clothes, he bore an ordinary yet slightly hunched appearance marred by a long red scar running from his right eye to his chin, an unsettling mark that gave him both an ugly and fearsome demeanor.
"W-Who are you?!" Azrael stammered hoarsely.
"Me? I'm nobody special," replied the old man with a smile that twisted his scar into something almost serpentine and frighteningly captivating. "But many call me Master Arcturus."
Azrael flinched at the sight but pressed on with curiosity tinged by caution as his hoarse voice sounded: "Old geezer, were you the one who saved me?"
"Well," Master Arcturus chuckled lightly despite himself, "it seems so." He straightened his hunched back and said with a chuckle.
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"Hey kid, it's time for dinner!" Master Arcturus announced as he entered the dimly lit room, cradling a steaming bowl of fragrant rice, tender meat, and savory broth.
He placed the meal in front of Azrael, who sat motionless at the table.
Despite the tantalizing aroma wafting through the air, Azrael's head remained bowed, as if he were unaware of his surroundings.
Master Arcturus cast a fleeting glance at Azrael before glancing at the three untouched bowls of food nearby.
With a heavy sigh, he shook his head and quietly left the room.
Alone in the flickering candlelight, Azrael remained still.
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Time passed by and days turned into weeks, two long weeks during which not a single drop of water or morsel of food had crossed his lips.
His once vibrant figure had become frail and weak; his face was ghostly pale, lips cracked and dry from neglect.
Each day Master Arcturus returned to offer breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but Azrael only sat there in silence, sometimes crying softly in the dead of night.
His bloodshot eyes told stories of sleepless nights haunted by memories that replayed like an endless nightmare: the massacre of his friends and village, the horrific deaths of Lykon and Galen before him; Snow's heart torn from her chest; and the lifeless bodies strewn across what used to be their home.
The grotesque faces of their killers loomed large in his mind, those bloodthirsty grins forever etched into his memory.
Sleep eluded him as these haunting visions tormented him every time he dared to close his eyes.
The vibrant smile that once adorned his face had vanished along with his appetite; he was but a shadow of himself now.
"Hey kid! Time to eat!" Master Arcturus reentered the room with another steaming bowl in hand but this time lingered longer than usual.
He stood before Azrael for several moments before speaking again.
"You know your grandfather wouldn't want to see you like this," he said gently.
At last stirred from his stupor, Azrael slowly raised his head to meet Master Arcturus's gaze.
His pale face bore witness to suffering, a stark contrast to the warmth once radiating from him. "You know my grandfather?" His voice came out hoarse through cracked lips.
Master Arcturus nodded solemnly. "Not only do I know him; he was my friend, a comrade-in-arms. We traveled together through many lands."
Azrael's eyes widened slightly as curiosity sparked within him after hearing those words. "How did that happen?!"
"If you want to learn more about him, you need to eat first," Master Arcturus replied with encouragement before stepping out into the hallway.
Left alone again in silence, Azrael glanced around at the empty room and then back at the entrance where Master Arcturus had just departed.
Finally, his gaze fell on the untouched food, after a few moments of stillness, his figure stirred.
With trembling hands, he reached out and grasped the food, bringing it to his lips bite by bite, savoring each morsel.
Meanwhile, just outside the door, Master Arcturus leaned against the frame, his back pressed firmly against it as he gazed up at the sky.
A smile slowly spread across his face.