Sir William had survived many battles. Every scar upon his skin was a reminder of those who had tried and failed to slay him. Though grey had begun to pepper his beard, he had no intention of slowing.

Why the King had sent him on this manhunt, he did not know. It was not his place to question orders, yet this task felt beneath a knight of his standing. It was that very hubris he cursed when the rogue mage left him bleeding in the dirt. Had age slowed him, or pride made him foolish? Either way, Sir William limped through the forest, praying this path would lead to a town and a healer. The sun began to set, and Sir William was sickeningly aware that the trail of crimson would guide any hungry predator straight to him. He pressed on, less and less certain this wound would become another scar. Damn his pride. Damn his carelessness.

A light appeared in the distance, growing closer with every dragged, painful step. A lone cottage stood in the middle of the woods. As he neared, his stomach churned. Bones, crystals, herbs, and feathers hung from the thatched awning, and the scent of cinnamon clung to the cool night air. A witch. His King sought to purge such vile spellcasters from the realm, and now Sir William faced a choice: die here, or swallow his pride and see another dawn. Hells, this was divine punishment.

“Witch!” he bellowed, slamming his fist against the oak door. “I am in need of your service!” Sir William groaned as his body slumped to the floor, waiting to behold the cursed crone or hag behind the door.