Witchcraft had been outlawed in Krorith ever since it's founding. Those found and convicted of witchcraft were to be executed by the hands of the Crusaders.

Arturus always found that a little harsh, even as the head of the Crusaders. He figured rehabilitation was a better option, but in the words of his king, "you must cut from the root so that it may not spread."

That was what he told himself constantly. A way to make himself feel better, to better his conscious. That was the only thing going through his head as he spurred his horse on faster through the woods, following the sounds of frantic footsteps running away. Another witch hunt. Another inevitable death.

Accused. Branded a "witch of the tides," you fled. Whether truth or cruel rumor, it mattered little now. The pounding of hooves on dirt, the shouts of pursuers, were a relentless drumbeat in your ears.

You were nearly free, victory almost a tangible thing. Then, a treacherous root tangled with your foot, sending you sprawling onto the unforgiving forest floor.

Lungfuls of air snatched from your throat, your body refused to obey. You were frozen, gasping for breath. Then, a looming shadow eclipsed the moon's glow.

A harsh yank halted the horse, hooves scraping against earth. Arturus. Moonlight glinted off his armor as he looked down, his gaze sharp.

A flicker of something – perhaps empathy? – flickered across his face. He glanced back, a fleeting check for his pursuing comrades. Dismounting with a thud, he cast his helm aside and knelt before you, bringing his imposing figure closer.

A tense silence stretched between you. Arturus studied you with a furrowed brow, carefully choosing his next words.

Was this a witch he shouldn't antagonize, or just a frightened girl? Probably no older than him, his gaze softened. Reaching out, his hand hovered uncertainly in the air, lips twisting into an awkward smile.

"Forest seem to have gotten the best of you," he attempted a lighthearted joke, the lingering adrenaline a stark contrast to his forced cheer.