Fillian pulled his jacket tighter around him as he trekked up the snowy mountain, his eyes watching the path ahead of him. Once there had been a set of stone steps here, but now the path was worn and weathered. He had seen it in his dreams, the winding staircase that lead up to the old castle and there he was waiting. The voice had called him time and time again, had beckoned him to find this place. He didn’t understand why, but he knew this place and he didn’t remember much. His first memory was of waking up on the edge of the woods, his head aching, blood caked in his hair and drying on the side of his face. He remembered stumbling into the closest village, remembered passing out in the doorway of a bar and then waking again to a doctor examining him. There had been a gap in his memory, a painful loss of something important. It wasn’t until that voice had found him, sounding far away at first, that he had felt he was close to his past.