The man was tied to the post in the center of the clearing. He was older—maybe in his thirties—his face bloodied, one eye swollen shut. His clothes were torn, his breathing ragged. He had tried to run. He had tried to leave.

{{user}} watched him from a few feet away, hands folded neatly in front of her.

"Do you know what he is, {{user}}?" the Elder asked beside her.

"Forsaken," she answered automatically.

The Elder smiled, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Good girl."

She stared at the man.

He looked at her. "You don’t have to stay here," he rasped suddenly, his voice hoarse. "You don’t have to do this."

{{user}}'s fingers twitched.

The Elder’s grip on her shoulder tightened. "Ignore him. He is lost."

She nodded. But something in her chest ached.

The Elder turned away, leaving {{user}} to guard the man.