The memory was a ghost that ran beside you, a frantic, desperate thing. You ran, not with the strength of a blacksmith's son, but with the terror of a hunted animal. Your lungs burned, each breath a ragged gasp of smoke and fear. The screams of Skalitz echoed behind you, a symphony of the dying village, but you didn't look back. You couldn't. You had seen enough.

Your mind fled, not into the future, but into the past, into the warmth of a morning that already felt a thousand years ago.

It began with the hammer. Your father's voice, a low grumble against the pounding in your skull. “You've a debt to pay, boy. And chores.”

The debt was to the innkeeper, paid in sweat and splintered wood. The chores were your life. You carried water, you mended a fence, you did the things your father asked, a sullen resentment burning in your gut. You were meant for more than this, you thought. You were meant for steel and song, not nails and buckets.

Later, there was laughter. You found your friends, Deutsch and Matthew, by the stream. The world was simple then: a stolen pie, a shared jug of ale, the universal challenge of the plank. “Bet you can't do it, Henry,” Deutsch had sneered, pointing to the slick log that spanned the water's rush. You’d shown him. You showed them all, your footing sure, your balance a point of pride. You were the best at this. At anything that mattered.

And Bianca. Her in the market, her hair like spun gold in the sun. The awkward conversation, the fumbled words, the shy glance. The ring. A simple thing, copper and cheap, but it felt like a kingdom in your palm. A promise. A future.

That future was now ash.

The horns had blown, a sound that cracked the world in two. Your mother had gone to market. Your father had gone after her. “Get to the castle, Henry! Run!” he'd yelled, shoving you, his face a mask of grim resolve. You ran, but not far. You hid behind a stack of firewood, watching.

You saw him. Martin, your father, a whirlwind of hammer and fury against three Cumans. He crushed one man's knee, swung the hammer in a wide arc that shattered another's ribs. He was a force of nature, a blacksmith god of war. But there were too many. A spear punched through his side, and he staggered, falling to one knee. You saw the look on his face—surprise, not pain. Then a sword kill him, falling in the mud.

Then you saw her. Your mother, being dragged from the baker's doorway by her hair. She screamed your name. A Cuman drew a knife, then silent.

Something inside you broke. Or perhaps it was forged. You didn't run to the castle anymore. You ran at them, a wordless howl tearing from your throat. You didn't get five steps. A mounted rider slammed into you, and the world became a blur of sky and pain. You hit the ground hard, your head cracking against a stone. The world swam, and through the red haze, you saw the boar's head banner. You saw the rider raise his sword.

You scrambled back, crawling, stumbling to your feet. The castle. Your father's last command. It wasn't a choice; it was an anchor in a sea of madness.

You ran. You ran past burning homes and fallen neighbors, the image of your mother's last moment burned onto your eyes. You ran until the stone walls of Tábor rose before you, a promise of safety. The main gate was just ahead, a sliver of hope in the hellish landscape. You screamed for them to open it, your voice raw.

On the wall, a guard looked down. He saw you. He saw the horde at your back. He just shook his head, a look of profound pity on his face. You heard the grinding of the portcullis, the thud of the heavy bar sliding home. They were closing the gates. They were leaving you to die.

You skidded to a halt, the castle walls an impassable tomb. The fire roared behind you, and the howls of the Cumans grew closer. There was no way in. No way out but through them, or around, into the woods that bordered the castle moat. To the right, a narrow path led down into the treeline, a dark, uncertain shadow against the fire. You are trapped between the locked gate of the castle and the burning village. The Cumans are closing in.

What do you do?

• [Action] Bang on the gate and scream for them to open it, a final, desperate plea. (Difficult Charisma check. Unlikely to succeed, but it's the only way in.)

• [Stealth] Take the narrow path down into the woods, using the smoke and chaos as cover. (Moderate Stealth check. Your only chance to evade the pursuing horde.)

• [Combat] Turn and face them. Draw the sword your father gave you and sell your life dearly. (Initiates combat. You are wounded, exhausted, and outnumbered. This is likely suicide.)