Morning came quietly to the Grimlock home. The storm had passed, leaving the world outside blanketed in white. The faint light of dawn filtered through the frosted windows, casting a pale glow across the room where the hooded man lay.
Sam stirred first, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The fire had burned low, but the warmth still lingered. She glanced toward the couch—and froze.
The hooded man was awake.
His eyes, a strange shade of silver tinged with gold, flickered weakly as he tried to sit up. Sam rushed to his side.
"Hey, easy! You're still hurt."
He blinked, confusion clouding his gaze.
"Where... am I?"
His voice was hoarse, quiet, as though unused for years.
"You're safe," Sam said softly. "You were hurt. We found you in the snow."
He looked down at his hands, then at the faint golden scars where the wound had been. "I... don't remember."
Tyra entered from the kitchen, holding a bowl of warm broth.
"You should eat something," she said gently, setting it beside him. "You've been unconscious for nearly a day."
The man hesitated, then nodded slowly.
"Thank you."
Cromwell stepped into the room, his presence filling the space. He crossed his arms, studying the stranger with a sharp, unreadable gaze.
"You're lucky to be alive," he said. "Most wouldn't have survived a wound like that."
The man looked up, his expression uncertain.
"I don't even know how I got it."
Cromwell's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You don't remember anything? Not your name, where you came from, nothing?"
The man shook his head.
"Nothing. It's all... blank. Just flashes of light and sound. Fire. Screaming. Then—nothing."
Sam exchanged a worried glance with her mother.
"Could it be memory loss from the injury?"
"Maybe," Tyra murmured, though her tone carried doubt.
Cromwell remained silent for a long moment, his gaze never leaving the man. Then he sighed. "Until you remember who you are, you'll need a name. We can't keep calling you 'the hooded man.'"
The man looked up, puzzled.
Cromwell thought for a moment, then said,
"Shin. That'll do for now."
"Shin..." the man repeated softly, as if testing the sound. "All right."
Cromwell nodded once. "Sam, you'll look after him while he recovers. Make sure he doesn't strain himself. And keep an eye out—if anyone in town sees him like this, questions will start flying."
Sam frowned. "You think he's dangerous?"
"I think," Cromwell said evenly, "that danger has a way of following men who fall from the snow bleeding gold."
Shin looked down, guilt flickering across his face.
"I don't want to cause trouble."
Cromwell's tone softened slightly.
"Then don't. Rest, recover, and when you're strong enough, we'll figure out what to do next."
He turned to his children, who had gathered near the doorway.
"Listen carefully. Once Shin's well enough to travel, we're leaving Icy Peaks. It's not safe here anymore."
John's eyes widened. "We're moving? But why?"
Cromwell's expression darkened.
"Because the world's changing, boy. And I won't have this family caught in the middle of it."
Tyra placed a hand on his arm, her face pale but resolute. "We'll be ready."
Cromwell nodded, then looked back at Shin.
"One more thing. You'll need to change clothes. That cloak of yours will draw too much attention. People here don't take kindly to strangers—especially ones who bleed gold."
Shin glanced at the tattered cloak draped over him, then nodded.
"Understood."
He slowly reached up and unfastened the clasp at his neck. The cloak slipped from his shoulders, falling softly onto the couch. For the first time, his face was fully visible in the morning light.
Sam blinked, momentarily taken aback. Shin's features were sharp yet gentle—his skin pale but warm under the glow of the fire. His hair was jet black, styled in a way unfamiliar to them, short on the sides but longer on top, falling slightly over his forehead in a textured fringe. It gave him a striking, almost foreign look—reminiscent of the men from the far eastern lands Sam had only read about in books.
John whispered under his breath,
"He looks like someone out of a story."
Tyra smiled faintly, though her eyes still held caution.
"A story, perhaps—but one we don't yet know the ending to."
Cromwell said nothing, his gaze steady and unreadable.
"Get him some proper clothes," he said finally. "The less attention he draws, the better."
Shin nodded once more, his dark hair catching the light as he lowered his head. "Thank you... for everything."
Sam smiled faintly.
"I'll find something for you. My father's old winter coat should fit."
As she left to fetch it, Shin leaned back against the couch, his gaze distant.
"Shin," he murmured again, as if trying to anchor himself to the name.
"If that's who I am now... then I'll make it mean something."
Cromwell watched him for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing slightly.
There was something in the man's voice—something ancient, buried deep beneath the confusion.
He turned away, his voice low but sincere.
"Get well soon, Shin."
Outside, the wind began to rise again, whispering through the frozen peaks. Inside, the Grimlock home stood quiet—but beneath its roof, fate had already begun to stir.