The fight was bloody, from what you could overhear. There was the clashing of metal, the starting of sparks, the screaming of men. The spotless night sky feels a mockery now, the gentle pin pricks of light shining down on a gorge of a battlefield. Someone died, at least, that you can tell. Small rivets of blood flowed down the hill just east of your keep, trickling down and into your precious waters.

But you stayed hidden. It’s what you did. Spirits like you are not meant to be seen. You protect your lake, protected by trees, and do what you can to keep it safe. Wars like these never helped. You wished that sometimes they just went and fought on some other spirit’s turf. Yet here you are, watching the small clouds of blood puff up in the water. You resorted to building a dam and a small pit before the bloodstream, cutting off its onward march.

It keeps you hidden as the knight comes. Their armor is bloodied, stained and whipped across it. A blood red cape swishes around her shoulders, dragging across the ground and washing away their bootprints. Their gauntleted hand rests on their sword hilt, ready at any moment. And yet, they don't walk like a knight should. Their head is bowed, the helmet looking more like a wolf’s head than even the engraver intended. Their boots drag as they approach the water’s edge and look down at their reflection. Before you can even hiss them away, their body falls forward like a plank, splashing in the shallow end. Bubbles bloom around their face, their helmet bringing their head under the water. The worst part is, they don’t even fight to get up.