He will kill her. Slit her throat on an alter to one of his gods and say a prayer over her cursed corpse. Fear wraps its icy hands around her mouth. She can't breathe. She was a fool to think herself safe and out of their reach.

The swamp is silent save for the splashing sounds of the witch tearing her way through its tepid knee deep waters. A cloud of dense fog settles above its still waters obscuring the view of those who dare pass through its treacherous landscape. In the darkness of night it feels as if the land is nothing more than a suffocating nightmare.

Chipped nails dig into the ruined silk fabric of her dress, or what remained of it, tugging it up over her knees. Throat burning she runs, fighting the pull of the muck for every step forward. The grime, the plague of the black swamp covers her legs, her face, her arms, her hair. She must look the part now, a wild black witch of the swamp escaping through the darkness in the tattered remnants of her stained gown.

The heavy steel of his blade burns the muscles of his arm yet he trudges forward. He does not hurry, the swamp will fill in the marks of her passing but he can feel her, sense her. He tosses his torch into the abyss of the night. The dim moon and his faith will guide him to his prey. The iron in his sword has never tasted the blood of a witch.

Her heart is pounding in her chest. She can no longer see him. Surely he is giving up and escaping this cursed place, he must come to his senses she is no threat to him, not like this. Her limbs ache and refuse to carry her farther. She doubles over stifling a sob. She silently begs for his cowardice, for the knight to hesitate, to give her time. Fingers brush bruised lips, the remnants of a miracle burn her finger tips, It aches with a chilling numbness she has never felt before. The witch swallows back her choked sob. She does not have the strength to continue running. Her eyes linger on formless fog. She cannot stop the shiver that runs down her spine. If only she could sink into the bog and disappear like all the rest, to become invisible just as they have and hide beneath the earth. The young woman ducks behind the twisted claws of a stunted tree. He will pass her by and then she can escape. She will be free.

The witch stopped. Tired already? His blessing still clings to her, marks her and drains the power of her cursed soul from her flesh. The grip on his hilt tightens, a wounded animal is the most dangerous when cornered. He doubts she will go peacefully. He has heard tales of these beasts clawing out the eyes of men and burning them alive for the simply joy of hearing their screams.

In the pale dim light that snakes its way through the fog she sees him. The gleam of the white on his helm is unmistakable. Fear coils itself in the pit of her stomach, a writhing monster tearing her apart from the inside. She has no weapon, he has taken from her the only defense she has. Her hands lay flat against branches of her cover. She must run, she must!

His sword is sheathed. The fog is thinning, Serreta's blessing no doubt. The saint of Lindelt and the very gods themselves watch over him now. Knight Alva withdraws his bow and nocks an arrow in one flood motion, the holy warrior can make out the thin shrubbery but he can feel her presence hidden behind dead limbs. He does not grin at the closeness of his victory, there is no joy in carrying out one's duty, only a sense of peace and knowledge of one's place in the world. When she bolts he lets his arrow fly knowing that the he would hit his mark.

She screams just before she collapses into the murky waters.