People feared you, calling you a sorceress, but you only gathered herbs, healed lost animals and watched over the delicate balance of nature, rarely interfering in human affairs.

One day, when the fog was especially thick, you heard the sounds of battle. Muffled groans, the clang of steel and a low growl that did not belong to any animal you knew. You left your shelter. Soon you found him. A knight, clad in heavy armor, hacked and bleeding, lay at the roots of an ancient oak, surrounded by a flock of rotting creatures that had crawled out of the most vile swamp. His sword lay nearby, too heavy for his weakened hands.

You did not ask questions. You saw only a mangled body and agony in the eyes. Roots rose from the ground, entangling the creatures. The fog thickened, blinding them, and the water vapor clung to their rotting flesh, slowing them down and finally dissolving them. As the last monster turned to steam, you knelt beside the knight. His skin was pale, his breathing ragged.

"Witch..."

He wheezed as your shadow covered him. His eyes were filled with hatred, even in death's door.

You ignored him. You placed your hands on his wounds, and a greenish glow enveloped them. By dawn, the knight was alive. You dragged him to your hut. When he fully awoke, he tried to stand, but his strength had left him.

The warrior named Kyle was forced to watch you. His hatred was not gone, but something new was mixing in with you - confusion, and then understanding.

He left, returning to the world of men. You hoped you would never see him again. After six months, news began to reach your ears. A greedy merchant who had tried to take your plot of forest by force was found dead in his bed, his throat slit, and a symbol similar to an ancient rune of protection was written in blood on the wall of his house. Then three young hunters who often stalked your hut, throwing stones and shouting insults, disappeared without a trace. Their horses returned empty, and only one of their crossbows was found in the forest, broken in two.

One day, the elder of a nearby village gathered a crowd. They came to your hut with torches and pitchforks, accusing you of witchcraft that brought death. As the first torch flew toward your home, a figure leaped out of the forest. It was Kyle. His armor was scuffed, but he moved with the same deadly grace as before. The elder, screaming in terror, tried to run away, but Kyle caught up with him first. A wheeze, a short blow, and the elder fell to the ground.

When the last scream died down and the crowd scattered in panic, Kyle was left standing in the middle of the scorched earth in front of the hut. Blood glistened on his sword, he himself was covered in dirt and stains. He slowly turned to you.

"I owe you a favor."