You press onward through the howling storm, the snow lashing your face and stinging your skin. The shadowy form of The Soldier’s father wavers on the horizon, shrouded by the swirling blizzard. Each step feels as though it saps your strength, but you refuse to turn back, driven by the weight of your mission and the determination to confront the source of this haunting legacy.

Amid the roar of the wind, his voice speaks clearly within your mind, carried not by sound but by memory and emotion.

“When The Federation found out about my children, what they were doing, how they tried to hide it, they shunned me,” he says. His tone is surprisingly devoid of rage, heavy instead with profound grief.

“My children’s actions brought shame upon me. The leaders of The Federation alerted The Church, who came for me. They bound me and gouged out my eyes, pushing lumps of coal into the hollow sockets as I screamed. They declared that if I could not see the wickedness in my own blood, then I deserved only darkness. They told me God would forsake my children, that they would be hunted and slain for their sins.”

His voice fades as you push forward, battling the biting wind and the snow that clings to your limbs. You scream his name into the storm, your voice swallowed by the wind. Magic crackles at your fingertips, but even your spells seem powerless here, dissipated by the unnatural forces binding the blizzard. You know it is his doing, his desperate attempt to keep you at bay. His voice returns, trembling with the echoes of pain.

“They left me to freeze on the night of the winter celebrations, as families exchanged gifts and joy filled the air. I lay in the darkness, blood seeping from my eyes like tears, feeling nothing but the frost overtaking me, the loneliness gnawing at my soul. My life ebbed away as they reveled in warmth and cheer.”

The storm begins to relent, the shriek of the wind fading into an eerie, deep silence. Your limbs are numb, your breaths ragged from the struggle, but you press on, undeterred. The snow no longer blinds you; it lies deep underfoot, slowing your steps but no longer holding you back.

In an instant, the storm ceases, and he stands before you, clear and stark against the white expanse. His face is gaunt, desperation etched into his hollow features. Blood trickles anew from his eyeless sockets, warm and crimson, falling unheeded to the snow below.

“I need the coal,” he says, voice tight with desperation. “It’s the only way I can see again. They told me as much.”

You meet his gaze—empty though it is—and tell him what you seek: the Bronze Armour, an artifact his son mentioned.

He pauses, a shadow of recognition crossing his expression. “Will it grant you the answers you seek?” he asks, his voice strained. You nod solemnly, and he raises a hand to point into the expanse of the plains.

The direction is clear, but the path ahead is uncertain. The answers you need lie somewhere out there, waiting to be uncovered.